An Unusual Sequence of Events
by sarapals with past50
Summary: A GSR story. Grissom is 'abroad' and stuck away from home by an unlikely event. A reason for the plant in "Malice in Wonderland". He does get home, and things change in the Grissom home! Fluff, of course!
1. Chapter 1

_**A/N: **Of course we do not own CSI nor its characters; just having a little fun! Short story, several chapters, set after "Malice in Wonderland" and a reason for the plant! Thanks for reading. _

**An Unusual Sequence of Events **

_Turmoil: A state of great confusion_

Chapter 1:

The rain came early, unexpected, and weeks before the traditional start of the season, thus no one was prepared for the sudden intensity or magnitude of it. And it rained without ceasing for five days and nights—torrential downpours that made walking on flat ground tricky and traversing a mountainside precariously dangerous. The storm began in the north where dark sullen clouds lay over treetops and mountain villages disappeared in a rain-soaked miasma and then it drifted south, heavier with rain, rolling down the valley. As the storm gathered strength and grew, the group of researchers had worked feverishly to cover several shallow trenches with stout tarps only to see water fall so fast and furious in the first hour of the storm that their work had been for nothing.

Thinking the storm would pass, the first night, as the constant racket of rain and thunder kept them from sleeping, they had talked—of nothing important—of the weather, of life away from this place, of the extra time it would take to excavate the water filled troughs. Or, one suggested, perhaps the rain and mud would prove to be helpful in closing down this site for the season. They had already talked about covering the trenches in loose dirt making their work nearly invisible to anyone looking for artifacts. Not that this dig in the mountainside held any treasure or ancient relics of value to anyone other than researchers, but some of the locals believed the simple presence of these strangers meant there was something to be found worthy of all the manual labor they did.

By the third day, when solar powered satellite phones had been drained of power and the fuel indicator for the small gas range moved into the red bar and the flame sputtered out before coffee was made, they talked of walking into the nearest village—an easy thirty minutes walk in good weather—but decided to wait because surely the rain would cease by the fourth day. It did not.

They were an optimistic group of men—pessimistic people did not traipse all over the world in search of the unknown and certainly not in search of long dead insects—so they waited, talked, read, slept and ate cold food from cans. Several times one man or another commented about how easy it was for men—women, they agreed, would have a tough time in all this rain and mud. No one admitted to missing a wife, but as they were all married men, each one knew the truth. Each one thought about a worried spouse, the one person who would be waiting, puzzled by the lack of a phone call as a third day stretched to a fourth. But none of the men voiced this very intimate concern as they resolved in various ways to wait out this storm.

In their isolation, they had no way of knowing the nation-wide disaster made by torrential rains—overflowing rivers, muddy landslides, sections of roads washed away, entire villages crumbling, and in the country's capitol, the end of an airport runway was simply swept away into a steep mountain valley. Thousands of people lost homes, hundreds were dead or missing; life as it was vanished as the rain continued into the fifth day.

That night Gil Grissom stood in the doorway and watched as darkly opaque sheets of rain created a waterfall along the sloping canvas edge of the narrow porch. At least the building was elevated several feet above the ground, he thought, as water dug deep rivulets into the muddy ground. He swatted a fly on his thigh, thankful for the only dry item of clothing he had remaining—a pair of black silky boxer shorts his wife had insisted he pack because the fabric would dry almost immediately. Everything else was damp or wet and muddy and hanging from pegs and hangers in a futile attempt to dry in one hundred percent humidity.

The other men were soundly sleeping judging from the snores and deep sighs coming from the bedrooms, but he could not sleep—not when his thoughts were thousands of miles away in Las Vegas. Not when he had promised to return on time, no delays this time. He wiped a hand across his face.

He missed his wife. She would know why he had not returned; their last conversation had been about the sudden storm and weather reports were easy to follow—and she would understand. She would tell him "It's okay—a few weeks and we'll try again." But he knew she would be disappointed, saddened again by a missed opportunity. Not angry—Sara would never be angry with him and, he admitted, he often took advantage of that sweet trait of her personality. He smiled imagining her face when she heard this story as she pulled his dirty clothes out of his suitcase—more than once she had met him in a strange city with clean shirts and pants because she insisted he would not be allowed to fly in the nasty, smelly clothing he had worked in for weeks.

Sara made him respectable, he thought with a smile. Going back into the small building, he ambled into one of the small bedrooms in search of an empty bed. The sheets were damp and chilly and reminded him again of the warm bed and body waiting for him at home. Sara waited—gentle, sweet Sara, patiently waiting as she had done for so many years—for him. He still found it troubling at how close he came to losing her forever, and in his isolated loneliness, he could not sleep.

Desperately, he wanted to do the one thing for her she desired, and plans had been made, doctor's appointments kept, bad news and good news led to extensive testing and a round of fertility medications, and then a second try when the first did not succeed. He understood fully the window of opportunity, especially for Sara, for women of a certain age, and he had promised a quick trip and return, back in bed with her and let nature take its course—with a little assistance, of course.

As he lay in bed, beads of sweat forming along his hairline, he thought of Sara, reliving some of their moments together—the way her face looked at climax, when she thought of something that excited her, the way she announced she wanted a child. Only Sara would do it with a book—his book—two copies, exquisitely bound and printed, one for him and one for their future child.

With snoring men on either side of the thin walls, he tossed and turned, tangled in the sheets, tried to plump his pillow, attempted to count sheep, before the steady deluge of rain beating on the metal roof finally put him to sleep. _Not where he wanted to be…not where he wanted to be…not what he wanted… _

Suddenly, he jerked awake, instantly alert to the sounds of a door slamming shut. The chair creaked and groaned as he struggled to get up; the Barcolounger had seen better days but he refused to give it up; it fit his form, he insisted. He stuck his feet into an old pair of sandals as he heard a voice—a screech from his wife.

"Get in here, Gil! All these groceries are for you! Get out of that damn chair and bring them into the kitchen!" Her loud yell grated on his nerves, but he hiked his shorts and headed to the kitchen. The dog, well aware of the scolding he would get for entering the kitchen, lifted his big head, gave a quiet moan, and resumed his nap next to the chair.

A quick imagine entered Grissom's mind. He wished he could jump this ship—a tropical island, cool breeze moving a hammock while he drank a beer and watched lovely women—real women with hips and breasts and luscious smiling lips. Instead, he answered, "Yes dear. Whatever you want—how about tea? Would you like some tea?"

His wife gave him a penetrating stare. "What have you been doing? You know my temp is up—we got to do it quickly! You better not be drinking beer—or anything else! Are you wearing those boxers I got you? This had better work this time. I'm the one taking the shots and doing everything while you sit around the house! Are you going to bring in the groceries or do I have to tell you to do everything?" She paused for a quick breath. "I'm getting in bed. Get yourself ready. I hope you took a shower while I was gone."

She continued to talk as he ducked into the garage. Groceries consisted of crackers and soup. Several times he had tried to tell her she was too thin—anorexic, her physician said. But she insisted she was small boned—yeah, right, she was half the size now from the time they met. With fertility treatments, she had gained some weight but in bed she still felt more like a coat hanger than a woman.

In the beginning he had been enthusiastic about a baby, his baby, their baby—it would make them a real family—give his wife a way to spend her days while he worked. But now, when they realized it would not be easy, it consumed every thought and action she had. Their lovemaking had turned into an ordeal regulated by time, temperature, and temper. Not what he had imagined. He opened the car door and began removing sacks of groceries; not that she bought real food. Everything was low calories or no calorie—he couldn't remember the last piece of chicken he had eaten that had any taste to it.

Taking longer than necessary, he daydreamed, asking himself how his life had turned into this frightful chaos. Who was this skinny woman in his house? Some long forgotten girlfriend he had never intended to marry! _This was not where he wanted to be…_

_**A/N:** Maybe you got the reference to a previous story? LOL! Length depends on you...tell us what you think about chapter one. _


	2. Chapter 2

_A/N: As there seemed to be some confusion about Chapter 1, we are posting Chapter 2 today._

**An Unusual Sequence of Events**

Chapter 2

_Confusion: the state of being perplexed_

A cold sweat covered his body; the sheet had been thrown from his narrow bed and even his boxers seemed damp. The rain continued to pound on the metal roof and as he lifted the sheet from the floor, he felt a sprinkle of water across his back. Finding his flashlight, he shined it upwards. Water, a long line of dripping rainwater was coming through the roof.

He sat up, found his shoes, and in darkness managed to move the bed about three feet to the middle of the floor. He sat down on the bed and tried to recall his dream—something not pleasant, he thought. And how in the world did an old college girlfriend get in his dream? His dream was a nightmare, a confusing conglomeration of an old girlfriend and secret fears. He wanted to be a good husband, hopefully a good father, to keep his promises. The thunder rumbled, echoing against the mountains; the sky lit up with lightening. Wrapping the sheet around him, he settled back into bed. Only, the constant drip-drip-drip of rain drumming into his brain kept him awake. He covered his face with the thin pillow and closed his eyes.

"I'll think of Sara," he said to himself. He chuckled remembering how she had explained to his mother they were planning a baby. His mother had thought a baby was actually on the way and in ten minutes the two women he loved had made a list of names and pulled up an internet site about decorating a baby's room. He would not even attempt to imagine what the two had done while he was away.

His thoughts drifted to the fertility clinic—very caring, compassionate professionals—he had no idea of the problems, the number of couples who had problems with conceiving a baby. The process scared him—he had talked to Doc Robbins about all of this and had a thorough physical after hearing about the advanced and invasive procedures if first attempts did not succeed.

This time sleep did not come; instead, he dosed a few minutes and then the sound of rain and thunder woke him again and again until finally he gave up. The lightening flashed so brightly it seemed to come into the building. He was halfway out of bed, that moment between sitting and standing, when a tremendous quaking crash reverberated throughout the house. The bed shook, his watch and glasses rattled on the table top, metal screeched, and wood shuddered. For an instant he thought "earthquake", and then the confused shouts and yells of the other men came as a great vibration convulsed across the building.

It had never happened to him before, but Grissom knew a tree had fallen on the house. Grabbing his flashlight, he was in the hallway with the others as confusion mounted for several minutes and quickly dissipated when they managed to shine lights into the large kitchen-dining area where an enormous tree had fallen. Limbs, branches, and sodden leaves reflected their lights and made it impossible to see what was left of the building.

One man uttered a common thought, "holy shit!"

In the dark with several flashlights, the men decided there was little to be done until they had more light. Grissom was so exhausted he thought sleep would come quickly as he straightened the sheets before crawling between them. But his body resisted as new sounds filled his ears. The building creaked and groaned, the weight of the rain soaked tree cracked as it settled into the broken roof, and the constant dripping hitting the floor made sleep impossible.

Getting up again and walking to the window, he thought he could detect a faint grey light and checked his watch. Surely with dawn the rain would stop or slow. He was certain the others would agree it was time to leave, even in the rain, and get to the village where the local daily bus would take them to a busy highway where another bus would take them into the city. Everything was packed into cases each man could carry and a backpack held personal items.

Maybe, he thought, if they were lucky, a telephone would be working in the village or the sun would come out. He pulled on damp pants and found a shirt. Coffee was probably not going to be possible this morning, but using his flashlight, he thought he might find a way underneath the fallen tree's foliage to locate food. He wasn't the only one to think of food; two other men were already crawling over and under massive limbs by the time he got to the wrecked section of the house.

In short order, they found food and water, but also discovered the water pump has been destroyed by the tree so a few bottles of water were all they had. The entire end wall of the building had been knocked down along with a large section of the roof and by the time the others joined them, everyone knew they would have to leave—rain or not. And it kept raining.

The building, while well built, was a simple structure, used by different research groups for a few weeks at a time. Each group brought what was needed, hauled it in, and what was not used, was taken away when they left. As Grissom's group expected to stay a week, they had not brought much, and left with less. Wrapping themselves in plastic rain ponchos, they started out, an easy walk on any day except today.

The smell of earth permeated the air; the tree on the building had not been the only to one fall in the night. Leaves covered the path, and more than once they crawled over a downed tree; in other places they walked in mud sliding over and covering any trace of their path. And they did not talk much. When someone stumbled, a hand was held out; many times the person leading the way called out a warning of rushing water, deep muck, or low hanging trees.

Finally, more than an hour after starting out, the group rounded a curve and, even though hard to see, they squinted through the rain and made out the roofs of the small village in the distance. The narrow path opened up to a muddy dirt road, now knee deep in ruts, but at least cleared enough so they could walk easier. Walking past fields, they saw no one—only fools would be out in this weather with rain soaking faces and mud covering clothes.

The streets—two paved crossroads—were deserted, but all of the men smelled food and after cold beans and canned tomatoes for several days, they would have paid a king's ransom for a bowl of hot food. They also knew where the local cantina was located and looking like the refuges they were, automatically, they turned at the corner and all breathed a sigh of relief when they saw the metal shutters rolled open and the porch nearly empty of customers.

There was much confusion when the men entered—several men watching a television set turned and look at the wet, mud-covered group. As rainwater dripped from their clothes, everyone seemed to take several minutes to comprehend what was happening. The researchers heard of the nation-wide disaster for the first time from the television news reporter; the locals figured out the drenched men were the researchers from the mountain side and instantly everyone started talking.

Hours later, as if by some miracle, Grissom's belly was full of roasted chicken, beans, and rice, washed down with local beer, he was wearing borrowed clothes, and resting in a clean, dry bed in a family's home. The other men has been similarly fed, clothed, and housed in the small village; everyone was excited to have something to talk about other than the monsoon rains, the washed out roads, and the flooding in the valleys.

The house where Grissom was a guest was small, with three tiny bedrooms and one bathroom, but the children smiled, hiding grins behind their hands, as they made room for the stranger who wore baggy pants belonging to their father. Grissom heard the quiet sounds of the family going to bed as he lay in the narrow bed, a clean blanket spread over the mattress, and paint peeling off the ceiling.

He didn't think he would sleep easily with his mind troubled by his delayed return and the impossibility of getting a message to Sara, but his eyes finally closed as he stared at the ceiling and _thought of where he wanted to be…_

Sudden screaming jerked him awake—into the kitchen of his house—how did he get here—where toys and bottles and diapers and dirty dishes covered every surface. A pile of laundry was heaped on the floor; another messy heap of clothing covered the table. Not one but two babies were crying from colorful swings; his mother was bent over one swing attempting to lift an unhappy baby who was belted into the swing. His wife, her back to him, was making 'shushing' noises to the other crying infant. He knew better than to interfere with the child care his wife and his mother practiced. The smell of something burning met his nose. His wife turned, her hands were signing as her face distorted with anger.

He grabbed a hot pad, opened the oven and removed a prepared dinner, burned around the edges, but it still seemed edible. As the children screamed, he reached into the back of a cabinet and poured himself a shot of whiskey, stopped briefly, and continued pouring until several inches filled the glass. As he lifted the glass to his lips, the housekeeper ran into the kitchen.

The woman spoke Spanish most of the time and he clearly understood her to say "I have to do everything in this house! I do not know how you people live when I am not here!"

She took the hot pad from Grissom and shooed him out of the way. Just as quickly, she reached for the baby girl who instantly quieted as the woman sang a soothing Mexican lullaby to her. His mother turned to his wife and the two women signed to each other; Grissom did not even try to follow their conversation. One baby was quiet while the other continued to scream; his wife and his mother seemed unaware of the crying. He took a step toward the infant as the housekeeper reached for the swing, unsnapped the belt and easily lifted the baby into her arms. Deciding to stay away from the circus in the kitchen, he swallowed his liquid lunch and headed to the living room where the television was on.

His old recliner chair had disappeared; a play pen filled with toys had taken its place. The sofa was nearly covered in blankets, toys, an infant carrier, more diapers. A purple dinosaur was dancing around on the big screen of the television. "This is hell," he mumbled as he cleared a place to sit.

Just as he settled on the sofa with the remote, his wife appeared. She ate three grapes before she removed the remote from his hand. She signed "The children need vocal stimulation."

He did not point out that the children were not in the living room.

His wife continued signing, "It's good for the children. Don't be so selfish. I thought you said this marriage would be perfect! I want perfect children! How can you be so selfish!"

When he made no response, she clapped her hands to get his attention, moved between the television and where Grissom sat and signed "I'm full. Lunch is burned. If you and your mother want to eat, you have to order it." She turned and stomped out of the room, taking the remote with her.

He was confused; he had never meant to marry Julia! How had this happened? _This was not where he wanted to be…this was not what he wanted…_

_A/N: Thanks for reading! Happy weekend!_


	3. Chapter 3

_A/N: Thanks for reading! And for those kind reviews! Now, that you know Grissom is dreaming-who else can be in his nightmares? Some of you have already guessed..._

**An Unusual Sequence of Events**

_Commotion: a scene of noisy activity_

**Chapter 3**

Struggling through a sleepy haze, his hands found the blanket and he remembered where he was—a strange bed, a stranger's house, wearing a stranger's clothes that did not fit. He was breathing as if he had been in a foot race—a nightmare, he thought as he remembered what he had dreamed. He needed to talk to Sara; the bewildering dreams would disappear, he knew, if he could hear her voice.

Sitting up in bed, he realized he no longer heard the steady beat of rain. Looking at the window, he got up, pulled a thin curtain back and saw moonlight—a bright, almost full moon—making the world outside the window one of bright images and definite shapes. Finally, the rain had stopped. As if to support his thoughts, he saw a large bird flying across the sky, its wings casting a shadow as it flew.

He returned to bed and slept, soundly, not stirring until he heard voices in the house. When he opened the bedroom door, he found his shoes, pants and shirt, clean and dry, had been placed beside the door. He had no idea how his clothes had been returned to him as they were—but in a while, as he ate a breakfast of fresh tortillas, hot beans, soft cheese, and fruit, one of the children explained how his clothes had been washed on the back porch and hung over the kitchen stove to dry, and the boy, age twelve, had cleaned the shoes.

Before the group left the village riding in the back of an old pick-up truck, satellite phones came to life and each man got a quick message sent. Grissom, knowing she was likely asleep, texted a message to Sara, briefly, saying they were on their way to the capitol city.

Quietly, each man had left money in the home where they stayed—as a gift, not as payment for hospitality—telling the parents to buy treats for the children. The lead researcher had also paid several men to remove the fallen tree and make repairs to the building on the mountain. Slowly, the men were driven along a muddy road, partly paved but in places completely washed away. The driver attempted to avoid the biggest mud holes, but at times, he had to inch his truck through water a foot deep or the men in back jumped out and edged around a cavernous pot hole that might have drowned a loaded truck. Finally, they arrived at the main highway; a dozen or more people waited at the bus stop.

One of the men groaned. "A full bus, from the looks of it."

"Let's hope there is a bus," Grissom grumbled.

A small store selling drinks and snacks was doing brisk business; Grissom filled his pockets with candy. The proprietor insisted the bus would be there in an hour; and a bus did arrive and passed blowing its horn without stopping. People onboard waved and shouted, pointing behind them. Someone figured out another bus was coming; it arrived two hours later and by that time over two dozen people were waiting to board. Somehow, everyone managed to get on the already crowded bus—or on top of it. Grissom hesitated to climb the rickety ladder to the roof, saw two children watching from the bus window and offered to let the two small children sit on his lap for a seat beside their very pregnant mother. His legs straddled two research cases while his back pack disappeared overhead.

When the bus jerked forward, Grissom would have slid onto the floor if there had been floor space available. His knees bumping into a person sitting in the bus aisle, he said "Pardon" and received a reply in English of: "Can't be helped."

For a while, the children were quiet but gradually began laughing as Grissom offered candy and made funny noises which developed into a game of "I-spy" colors and objects inside the bus until the small children fell asleep, one on each of his shoulders. When the young mother attempted to move one child, Grissom shook his head insisting the children stay with him. Their mother's belly took up most of her lap—twins, she said as she held up two fingers and quietly explained the reason she was on the bus.

An hour passed, then another. Grissom felt he was in the middle of a poorly made movie when the bus stopped in the middle of the highway—no traffic, no houses, nothing as far as one could see. The bus driver barked directions and everyone climbed off the bus, women on one side, men the other—for a bathroom break. With surprising order, everyone returned to their seats or floor or rooftop to continue the trip. Evidence of the storm was everywhere—swaths of downed trees, water-filled ditches, an occasional wash-out of a segment of the highway.

The bus cautiously crossed a bridge, one-lane, because half of the bridge had disappeared in the rain swollen river. Every person on the bus held their breath, said a prayer, or made the sign of the cross; some did all three. There were other bus stops along the highway, all crowded with passengers, but the bus driver sped up instead of slowing down. The crowd waiting for the bus shouted their disappointment while the passengers on the bus yelled their approval.

The young English speaking man sitting near Grissom's feet asked "Is there really another bus?"

Grissom chuckled and answered "There is always another bus."

In late afternoon, the bus pulled over on the outskirts of the city and everyone climbed off and joined a long line waiting for the city buses. As they waited, the men heard of more flooding, more devastation from the storm and the massive efforts of rescue and recovery along with a mention of problems at the airport. As everyone waited, some complaining occurred, but overall people waited, amiable and friendly, frequently laughing as stories were told of interrupted plans.

Grissom and the men with him were still several bus loads away from getting on a bus when a small white van made a turn into the waiting area; the driver's window was down and a woman called a name—one of the researchers—and then called several more names, including Grissom's.

"Heard you were coming in today so thought I'd get out here to pick you up! This is my third trip!" Her voice and laughter caused visible relief in the faces of the men.

The woman worked at the hotel where the research group stayed when in the city. She had known some of these men for fifteen years, met their families, and welcomed them as they arrived and as they returned. Throwing bags and cases into the back of the van, the tired men almost fell into the seats before she had fully stopped.

As the driver shifted gears, Grissom saw the young pregnant mother and two children who had given him their seat on the bus.

"Gloria—can we provide a ride to three more? The pregnant woman and her kids?" He pointed to the trio. "The kids gave me their seat. She's coming into the city to have twins by caesarean next week."

Gloria laughed and stopped the van. "Put them in—Lord, how do they do it? She'll be back home in ten days probably plowing fields with a baby strapped on her back!" She motioned toward the woman and Grissom opened the sliding door.

The men shifted seats, giving the mother and children the middle row of seats. After a short conversation, the driver got an address and headed into the city.

Gloria drove with her left hand and kept her foot on the accelerator as close to the floor as possible; Grissom did not think she used brakes at all. It perplexed him as to how a population who spent two to three leisurely hours at meal time could drive across town at breakneck speed. He held on to the back of the seat in front of him as the van turned a corner and narrowly missed pedestrians crossing the street. In some way among the maze of narrow streets, the driver found the address given to her by the pregnant woman and as soon as the van stopped, five or six relatives appeared to help. Everyone talked at once; the men shook hands with everyone, and, as quickly as they had arrived at the small house, they left, returning to the crowded streets and dizzying traffic.

Grissom could not remember when he had been so happy to see a hotel—the consensus of every man in the group. A luxury suite at the Ritz would not have been more welcome than the front of the small hotel, no more than twenty rooms, with a protective gate at the entrance and a seldom used courtyard. And by the time Grissom got to his small, clean, and air-conditioned room with a hot shower, he knew he could sleep for hours.

Much to his relief, a basket of crackers, cookies, bottled water, and tea bags sat on the countertop next to an electric kettle. As he ate the cookies, he called Sara and immediately got her voicemail; his message was: "Call me—whenever you can. I'm in the city—finally. I love you!" After a brief pause, he added "and I miss you."

With his phone working, he made another international call to a favorite garden center in Vegas, giving instructions for a specific type of plant after getting assurances it would be delivered at the requested time. "The sentiment?" he repeated when asked; thinking briefly, he said "just 'from Grissom'. Thank you," smiling as he ended the call.

After a long hot shower, he crawled between clean, dry sheets, naked except for the black silky boxers. He was physically exhausted, drained of thoughts, and his room, at the back of the hotel with a large window overlooking the dark courtyard, was totally quiet. It was so quiet Grissom couldn't close his eyes for a long time and _he thought again of where he wanted to be… _

The banging in his head seemed real as he fought his way out of sleep—he had been asleep, certain of it—yet he was sitting in the bathroom, his boxers at his ankles, a letter in his hands. Someone was knocking—no, banging on the door.

"Gil! Gil! What's taking so long? Are you reading that letter again? I told you not to plan another trip! I don't care where those damn bugs are or where they want you to go! Your life is here now—with me. Gil? Answer me!"

"Yes, dear, I'll be right out," he answered, meekly, as he stuffed the letter between pages of the newspaper. Why, he asked himself, had he let this happen? He had choices, he made decisions—and this one had proven to be very wrong. One request, one mistake and he had been manipulated when all he wanted was—he wasn't sure what he wanted.

The banging continued except the sound had changed from the rapping of knuckles to a flat-palm thud against the door. He folded the newspaper and opened the door.

"We need baby formula, Gil. You'll have to go to the store. Hurry! I have clients to see in one hour." His wife was immaculately dressed in her black working suit, not a hair out of place, make-up carefully applied. Her skirt hugged her shapely hips, her blouse plunged to show ample cleavage. A goddess, he thought, one made of cold, hard stone with emotions to match. Why had he married this woman?

"Can't the nanny go?"

His wife gave him a look that would have melted glaciers. "She's taking care of the twins. You wanted a family and I paid a lot of money for the little screamers! The least you can do is drive to the store. And get diapers too. They need to be changed once an hour—make sure you check after the nanny."

"Yes, dear," he mumbled as he buttoned his shirt. He glanced at his wife; she was preening in one of the many large mirrors that had remained in her house from the days when it served another purpose. He moved so he could catch his reflection in the mirror—he knew this was a dream! He loved Sara! He would never have married Heather…_this was not where he wanted to be…_

_A/N: We enjoy writing these bits of fanfiction-but we want to know who reads them! Thank you! _


	4. Chapter 4

_A/N: Here's chapter 4-and Grissom is headed home!_

**An Unusual Sequence of Events**

**Chapter 4**

_Dissonance: an inconsistency_

Grissom knew the noise was in his dream—nightmare if he remembered correctly. How on earth had he dreamed of Heather, he asked himself? He had not seen the woman in years even though he had occasionally corresponded with her by an email. And then he realized someone was knocking on his door, a soft rapping, someone saying his name. He kicked back covers and got out of bed, checking his watch for time, surprised it was early morning.

Gloria, the hotel employee who had driven the van, waved when he pulled back the curtain. He opened the door.

She immediately apologized and then said, "Your wife called. Your phone is off—perhaps it's the battery?" She apologized for the early hour. "She said it is about your flight and with the airport damaged, she needs to talk with you."

Sleepily, he nodded. His phone had worked fine when he had made the two earlier calls. Thanking her as profusely as she had apologized, he closed the door, wishing for a few hours of peaceful, dreamless sleep. His hand touched the wall switch and he knew why his phone did not work. He had diligently plugged the phone charger into the wall socket for charging—and then he flipped the wall switch to 'off'—effectively cutting off all power to the room. He pushed the toggle upward and listened as the phone powered on.

Crawling back into bed, he called his wife.

"Hello, stranger," were Sara's first words. "I got the plant," she said, softly laughing. "Greg said you must be apologizing for something." She laughed again, a gentle lilting giggle that sounded like a soothing concerto to his ears.

"Talk to me, honey. I want to hear your voice. Tell me everything—it's been too long." Grissom said as he folded a pillow behind his head. Hearing her voice took away the miserable conditions of the past few days; his body relaxed and his spirits lifted.

Sara could hear the plea edged with exhaustion in his voice. So she talked—not of her loneliness and disappointment, not of the empty bed where she lay, or the sadness of a bride who lost her groom. She told of Greg's teasing, of Nick's latest girlfriend, and of Hodges' mother, giving every detail and hearing a soft chuckle as she related Morgan's role in the story. There were three versions of events—Morgan, Hodges, and Mandy told slightly dissimilar versions. The fabricated engagement, the dinner with Ecklie—by the time she finished with the kidnapping by jewel thieves, Grissom was laughing with true amusement.

"Poor Hodges—his life will never change," Grissom said with a laugh.

They laughed and talked about Hank, and when he spoke of the rain, the tree, the mud and washed out roads, he did so in a light-hearted way that made her laugh. He could not tell her about the cold rain dripping on his bed or eating beans out of a can or the cramped, smelly conditions of the bus. His experience was trivial, a mere inconvenience of a few days when compared to a near-death experience; when she had been thrown into a trunk of a car, fought her way out, escaped certain death, all alone—so he joked and had her laughing as he related his story.

Her longest laugh came as he talked about the bathroom stop—men on one side, women and children on the other. He said "I expected bandits—Billy the kid style—to run out of the fields, Sara. I swear it was the most difficult pee I've ever taken!"

Sara howled with laughter. "This from a man who can make rocks float in a desert!"

"I was having a seriously bad time. Standing in the middle of this deserted road, a dozen men making a waterfall into the ditch and I'm thinking Robin Hood and his merry men are going to show up to take my watch and I've got my dick in my hand!"

She laughed until she hiccupped and then he heard her sigh. "I miss you, Gil."

"I'll be home soon," he promised. "I'm sorry about all of this." His hand raked across his face. "I'm so sorry, Sara. I know I've let you down…"

"Shhhhh," she whispered. "We've been very lucky. Only a few missed connections or weather delays. I've watched your weather—it's been unreal—ten to fifteen inches of rain a day in some places." Her voice softened. "Have you heard about the airport?"

"I've heard there is damage—a runway is blocked or something."

He heard a heavy breath before she spoke. "A large portion of the longest runway washed away—all international traffic has stopped." Hurrying, she added, "That's the bad news and I've known about that for several days. The good news is you have a reservation on a small plane that flies to the coast. From there, you catch another flight into Miami, then Houston, and home."

Before he thought, he groaned. Realizing it must have taken hours to cobble together the flights, he managed to turn his groan into a laugh. "Do I need a parachute? And when do I leave?"

"Not until tomorrow—be at the airport by six. There are several local flights coming in. You should get on the first or second flight—the reservations are tricky but you have enough miles to be high on the priority list. I know it's a long day, but you should get to Vegas by early the next morning. The longest layover is Miami, but you have plenty of time to clear customs and make your Houston flight."

He praised her work in scheduling the reservations, insisting, "I'll be there. I'll call from Miami."

By a miracle, Grissom's flights got him to Miami with ninety minutes to get through customs and to his Houston flight. But a massive thunderstorm swirling in from the gulf canceled Houston. The ticket agent gave him a critical appraisal as she looked him up and down, and then glanced at her computer screen. She smiled and for the first time in years, Grissom was grateful for taking his wife's advice to buy a new shirt for the trip home.

"Mr. Grissom," the smiling woman said, her accent almost hidden, "we have a direct flight to Las Vegas leaving in forty-five minutes on another airline—code share. It's not full so I'm putting you on it. Your actual arrival will be earlier—how does that sound?"

He could barely say "Thank you" because he was smiling from ear to ear and he remembered to call his wife with the new arrival time.

The reclining business class seat was more comfortable than the beds he had slept in for two weeks. The juice in his glass was cold; his chocolate chip cookies were warm. The flight attendant asked him for preferences from a menu. Instead of food, he asked for earplugs; she handed him a toiletries kit with an eye mask, socks, a toothbrush, even a razor attached to a small can of shaving cream, and small white earplugs in a plastic case.

Before the jet left Florida, he slipped into a deep sleep; the sounds of the jet almost muted, quiet noises from inside the plane were hushed and _he thought of where he wanted to be…_

"You are sleeping so soundly, I hate to wake you" the flight attendant was shaking his shoulder. The plane was nearly empty except for an old lady with bright red hair being assisted by two younger women. The older woman was jabbering about playing slots and winning big money and remembering their kindness.

Grissom grabbed his bag and followed the parade of people toward baggage claim, rental cars, and the exit. Twice he thought about ducking into a restroom and brushing his teeth, but he had called Sara from Miami. She would be waiting at curbside. Passengers swirled around him; those arriving laughed and talked loudly. Those leaving were more sober, quieter.

He increased his pace. Suddenly, ahead of him, he saw Sara walking in his direction wearing a new shirt. Her hair was longer; she was more beautiful than he remembered, and, as he watched her, she looked down and laughed. Quickly, she stopped, bent over and then he noticed Greg. Greg—why was he here? And carrying—an infant. When Sara straightened up, she was holding a toddler in her arms. He stopped walking so quickly he was almost run over by a group of tourists.

Greg saw him first and raised an arm in greeting; Sara waved, a smile spreading across her face, she said something to the child in her arms and the child, a girl, waved at him.

Who were these children, relatives of Greg? No—he knew that was not likely and Greg held the baby easily, in a familiar way, accustomed to holding a small infant. Grissom's mind would not cooperate—too much noise—the swirling in his brain intensified.

Rapidly, they were standing before him. Sara said "You made it! We were worried the weather might delay your flight." Turning to the child, she said, "Laurie, this is Grissom. He sent you the big blue ball and the bug book."

The little girl nodded and for the first time Grissom got to see her face—Sara's face in miniature. Serious dark eyes, a mouth that made a timid smile were framed by soft dark curls.

Grissom could say nothing; he stared, unable to speak.

No one seemed to notice his inability to speak as Greg stepped forward, brought the infant from his shoulder to the crook of his elbow. He said "This is Gregory Warrick Sanders—GW, I call him." Greg laughed a long familiar chuckle. "Sara calls him Gregory but that's a big name for a little guy."

Grissom was speechless. He knew his mouth opened several times. Sara was his wife—these were supposed to be his children—not Laurie and Gregory—but his kids! Not Greg's wife—not Greg's kids. Grissom had loved Sara for years—Greg knew this! Why were they married? His head hurt; he blinked his eyes to prevent tears.

Easily, Sara smiled at him, knowing his thoughts as she had for years. "You waited too long, Grissom. Too long…"

Her face faded as her voice was replaced by another's. "It won't be long—it won't be long before we land, Mr. Grissom. Can you put your seat upright?" The flight attendant handed him a warm towel and a cookie wrapped in paper. She winked, "You missed dinner but you'll be home soon."

Home—he started to pinch himself but briskly wiped the towel across his face. This time he was awake. He raised the window shade to darkness and directed his eyes to the earth below; he knew he would see the lights of Vegas as the plane flew westward.

Home—he could smell it in the air as he walked through the terminal. A light fragrance was pumped into the airport ventilation just as the casinos did, but underneath—or floating on top—was the smell of dusty dry air produced on windy days in Las Vegas. He stopped in a restroom and brushed his teeth with the free toothbrush and used the shaving cream to wash his face.

Outside, waiting at curbside, he watched dozens of blurry-eyed tourists stumble, totter, and lurch their way to taxis and buses for their short trip to hotels and casinos. He realized younger generations did not arrive in Vegas before sunrise. After ten minutes, he called Sara's number which rang four times before a sleepy voice answered. He knew she had fallen asleep while waiting for his flight.

"Are you home?" He asked and before she could answer, he said "I'm on my way."

He heard her exclamation of surprise. "I fell asleep, Gil! I'm so sorry! I'll be there in fifteen minutes," she protested, her voice still groggy.

His arm was in the air for a cab. "No, stay there—I'm on my way." He laughed. "Just open the front door!" Before he finished his sentence, he was opening the rear door of a taxi. Telling the driver the address and adding shortcut directions. He continued talking to Sara, telling her how easy his flights had been, asking questions just to hear her voice.

Sara met him at the door, a broad smile across her face. And she kept smiling—sincere, joyful, welcoming, his Sara, the one person in his life who loved him without question, without judging.

"You're home!" Her arms lifted to circle his neck. Her hands touched his shirt, his hair, her fingers lifted and caressed curls just as her lips met him. Moments later, she parted from him and whispered, "I've missed you, dear!"

He knew she spoke, saying kind, loving words, but all of it was lost on him. His nose filled with the fragrance of Sara; his hands touched, felt her slender body as they hugged, softness, gentleness in all the right places. Her hips fit against his, her firm breasts pressed against his chest. Lips met again, soft, supple, sensitive caresses of mouth on mouth, teasing, tasting, savoring what had been missed. Senses of smell, taste, and touch overwhelmed his ability to speak—all he wanted to do was kiss her—for a while.

Long moments passed before they separated, both smiling, almost shyly as their eyes met, recognizing the passionate needs in the other. Sara's hand touched his bearded cheek, his fingers threaded into her hair. He pressed his hand against her back and brought her into the curve of his neck just to feel her warm breath against his throat.

"I've missed you more than words can say, honey."

He felt a smile spread across her face. "The plant," she giggled, "you didn't have to do that," she whispered.

"Yes, I did. An apology for not being here." He snuggled his nose against her hair. "Did you look it up?"

She made a soft laugh. "I did—_Calliandra_—the fertility plant." She kissed his jaw. "Are you exhausted?"

This time he laughed. "No, I slept on the plane, but I do need a shower and I'd love clean underwear." By now they were inside the house; the dog was nudging his nose between their bodies. With one hand, Grissom reached to pet the dog, keeping the other one securely around Sara. "You won't believe this, but since that storm—I think it started the night the tree fell on the house—I've had some weird dreams."

"You want to tell me?"

Again, he laughed. "Nope—they will never come true—just weird events scrambled together."

She gave Hank a treat and motioned to his bed in the kitchen. "You are there for a while, baby. Your dad will take you for a long walk later!"

Grissom lifted his eyebrow, asking "What's your plan? Are you working?"

"No, I've got other things to do." She returned to his arms. "First a shower with my husband. Then we'll talk about anything that comes up." Her hand slid along the front of his shirt and to his pants. "I think that will get things started—then we might do it again. And I'm staying in bed for twelve hours—at least twelve—while you walk the dog and feed me luscious bites of food and do other things that I've missed."

He grinned. "Quick shower—clean underwear."

"You don't need underwear for what I've got planned."

Reality, real life—he liked, no—he loved this life. No dream. No nightmare. Loving Sara was all he wanted to do. Finally, he was where he wanted to be...doing what he wanted to do...

_A/N: Decided to give that plant a name (not the correct one, for sure!) for our purpose. Thanks for reading, double thanks for your review! And one more chapter-maybe two more chapters-if you review this chapter! And guess what's coming? _


	5. Chapter 5

_**A/N:** And the chapter some of you have been waiting for-Grissom is home with Sara! Enjoy!_

**An Unusual Sequence of Events**

**Chapter 5**

_Harmony: a pleasing result_

The reality of real life, of living days apart, took several long minutes—getting a treat for Hank, listening as Sara related messages from his mother, as well as filling in some everyday details, another message from a local entomologist researcher, and giving him an update of her upcoming work schedule. Grissom kept an arm around his wife as she talked, and as they moved around the kitchen, she would lean into his shoulder, place her lips against his skin to kiss him, leaving her face pressed against her husband as reassurance he was really with her.

As they moved from front door, through the living room, to the kitchen, his mind slowed; his thoughts floated—_this is where I want to be, this is where I belong._

"I've missed you, Gil," she whispered as she placed both hands on either side of his head, cradling his face intimately. Their foreheads touched, and in seconds, all other real life issues took second place—or were simply forgotten for awhile.

Most of their clothes were left in a trail as they made their way to the bathroom. One word coming from Grissom over and over—"shower" kept Sara from pushing him onto the bed. Almost giddy with expectation, he laughed, "I've traveled too far and spent too much time in the same clothes!"

They moved as one; the shower blasted a spray of hot water across Grissom's shoulders and in minutes they were pouring liquids into palms and soaping each other from chin to toes, remembering warm, favorite places of lovers. Sara changed the shower spray to one of gentle warm mist. With extreme care, yet in a spontaneous act of nature, his hands touched her along her shoulders, traced down her arms to her chest, cupped her breasts in his palms, and gently circled each nipple with his thumbs.

There were times when a gentle touch or kiss caused one to catch an unexpected breath yet after an absence, their first union was all about sex—kissing, stroking—tender and passionate, remembering, swiftly taking pleasure in what had been missed. After the shower, when they had intimately cleaned each crevice and cleft, ears and elbows, belly, breasts, and bottoms, they stumbled in heated passion to the bed; neither cared or noticed the wet track left between shower and bedroom.

Their kisses became longer, arousing, savoring the taste of each other as their hands quickly explored. Sara's hands felt the strength along the length of his back as his tongue slid along her lower lip sending her senses into a raging waterfall. She tried to engulf him—her legs wrapped around his, her hands gripped and clenched finally closing around his shoulders. Gently, he lifted her; his mouth moved along the long curve of her neck, from ear to shoulder. Sara's fingers pressed against his back as his hand slipped to the place where the curve of her hips began. Very deliberately, he pressed her into that intimate space created between his legs which allowed him to feel the softness of her body against the hardness of his erection.

"Sara," he uttered and made a sound that was half moan, half muffled laugh.

Her hands and mouth were working—delicate pressure against his skin, fingers lacing through his hair. He probed, gently, softly, easing his way against the damp, throbbing entrance of her core. Her back arched against his body, aching with desire; he captured her face between his palms and kissed her as he began to move, slowly pushing inside her. The sensation of being completely encased by the woman he loved almost sent him into an immediate orgasm; he slowed his pace. But doing so caused Sara to lift her hips; she made a soft sound—much like the growl of a hungry animal, low and dangerously expectant. He plunged again, quickening his rhythm. The feeling of tightness around his erection strengthened as wave after wave of Sara's contractions built and abated until one long spasm tightened against him, clenching his shaft so he no longer had control.

At some point, their actions became too much for either to remember or consciously direct. He knew Sara reached orgasm and sailed away into oblivious bliss, no longer aware of what was happening around her. Driving himself deep inside her as he heard her choked cry of pleasure, he emitted his own groan as he exploded, physically he had no control as deep orgasmic spasms ran through his body; he could take no more of this divine stimulation. Deep from his lungs came the sound of satisfaction, happiness and passion as he collapsed over her wondrously soft body.

Sensations and feelings of warmth and tenderness, of being completely spent, of contentment and satisfaction kept them together; neither wanted to disturb this intimate togetherness. Sara's breath warmed his chest as Grissom lifted his hand to her face and then gently stroked her damp hair. Finally, they slept—Sara drifted into sleep before he did but not by many minutes.

If he dreamed, he did not remember, or perhaps it was because he was in the middle of a real life sweet dream that he slept so soundly. And when he stirred, instantly knowing he was in bed with Sara because of the scent in his nose, he knew he was already aroused as long fingers were playing with his penis.

"Sara," he breathed.

Her thumb stroked from base to tip; her fingers cupped, gently massaged, and held him. His pelvic muscles tightened just as her lips touched his ear lobe; he felt her teeth against his skin.

She whispered, "Finally, you're awake." The soft sound of her laughter acted as an aphrodisiac; his erection swelled as she held him, smooth and stiff in her palm. Her fingers circled and stroked his rigid member. Her mouth met his and her tongue swept along his teeth; immediately, his hands found her butt and he lifted her, urging her snugly against his groin. His hard penis slipped into that intimate soft space created for this purpose and for a few seconds, his erection bobbed before finding its home.

With one hand pressed against the back of her head, the other against her butt, he managed to push and roll himself on top of her, and with that movement, he entered the welcoming warm feminine center of her sex. He groaned—he knew it impossible, but she seemed tighter, swelled with passion, than she had previously; or, he thought, perhaps he was paying more attention this second time. Slowly, he moved, entering her at the same time he kissed her with deep, open-mouth passion, literally trying to taste the best parts of her.

Managing to move her slightly higher, he rocked his hips, both hands holding her butt as she arched underneath him. He felt her body clench and pull him into her; the heat and rhythm built as they moved as one. This time, they moved much slower, in a carefully modulating rhythm of passion so they climaxed within seconds of each other. Afterwards, rested and relaxed, they talked and played, kissing each other, unable to keep hands and fingers, feet and legs from constant contact with the warm body curved and fitted to their own. And Grissom worked—he kissed, touched, stroked, and caressed every inch of her body, paying special attention to those places of delight for him and for her. Moving his finger in a light stroke across the bottom of her foot caused Sara to giggle and turn her ankle a certain way. When he kissed her along the line where her breast rose from her chest, he heard the most erotic breath of air, a sweet sexy sigh just from his kiss. As his finger separated her very moist folds hidden in a triangle of tight dark curls, she flexed her knee, automatically shifting her body to give him access to the soft, glistening pink female flesh.

"Gil," she whispered as his tongue flicked against her dark swollen bud. He stilled her with a hand on her belly.

"Once more—for me," he said as he placed one finger into her ring of muscles. His finger probed, softly easing his way between her muscles, sweeping his finger against the wet walls of her vagina. Gently, he blew against her, flicking his tongue as his finger swirled inside her. His thumb provided a gentle massage to her clit.

Her muscles tightened, a rhythmic rippling cascaded against his finger; her back arched, her hips lifted. Her hands knotted into the bed sheet. Looking at her face, he saw an expression of passion and astonishment and he knew she was in free flight, climbing the waves to orgasm. He placed another finger inside of her as her body tensed; the rippling swelled as her body seemed to explode in waves of passion.

Grissom, as occasionally occurred when Sara climaxed like this, was suddenly aware of his own arousal. Quickly, he scooted his hips into place, and, with even more speed, he pushed his erection into Sara.

By the time Sara opened her eyes, she was met with a mischievous grin and sparkling blue eyes as he settled his elbows beside her shoulders. She giggled.

He smirked, "Sometimes unexpected surprises happen."

She wrapped her legs around his, slid her hands along his shoulders and back. "I've missed you." Her hand moved to the back of his head and she pulled him into a kiss as his hips began to move, down, up, gradually building momentum.

As his eyes closed, he thought—this is where I want to be…

When Grissom woke, he knew two things—the warmth at his feet was not Sara and her place in bed was empty. Opening one eye, he saw his dog spread across the bed. Slowly, he crawled out of bed—he did not feel old, but the kind of activity he had participated in earlier had sapped his energy. He chuckled as he found clean boxers and a shirt—an entire drawer filled with underwear was a true luxury, he thought. Washing his face, he decided instant hot water was another luxury.

He knew he had slept for hours by the shadows in the bedroom—a restful dreamless sleep that had escaped him for days. When he entered the kitchen, he found his wife and stood watching as she bent over, reaching into the oven. She wore a shirt, socks, and no pants which gave him a glimpse of bright purple panties as she pulled something from the oven.

He considered the sight one of the most beautiful, as well as sexiest, scenes he could imagine in his dreams—and this was no dream.

Softly, he said, "I like the view," as she stood, holding a pan of muffins in her hand.

She laughed. "You were exhausted—I didn't want to wake you."

Raking a hand through his hair, he watched as she placed the pan on the counter and then walked toward him. "You needed sleep. Hank has been walked and fed—resting in his favorite spot, I'm sure you noticed. Food in the refrigerator and hot muffins to eat." Sara's hand touched his face, her slim fingers held his chin as each thumb traced lightly underneath his eyes. "I'm so happy you are home."

Her words, the sound of her voice, emotional yet strong, touched him in a surprising way—his eyes pricked with unexpected moisture. "Sara," he whispered as he wrapped his arms around her. "Why do we do this? Why am I away from you for days—weeks at a time?" He felt her sigh against his chest. "I think its time I had a serious talk with the guy at the university."

For long moments, neither made a sound or attempted to move. Finally, Sara said, "Gil, we've talked about this. You are doing what you've dreamed of doing. I don't want you to—to think you have to stay here all the time because I want a baby! I'm really okay with this—we're doing fine." She pulled away from him, smiling. "You know how I get—and with these hormones I'm sort of—wobbly—and you just got home and I want to stay here and love you all day and night!" She blinked back tears with a watery smile. "And I'm going in to work tonight so I can have two weeks off, but I'll be home as soon as I can get away—if it's a good night—maybe a few hours."

He nodded, knowing there was rarely a "good night" in Vegas. Knowing they had resolved nothing, yet she had said so much, he knew what he was going to do. He was tired of this separate life, a wandering life that kept him away from where he wanted to be; he wanted to be with his wife. And she wasn't the only one who wanted a family. He was more determined than ever to do all he could for her to have a baby; fertility drugs were useless if he lived half a world away. With no further discussion, he knew what he would do.

Back walking her to the counter where the muffins were, he took one, handed it to her, and took a second one for himself. "Tell me about your doctor's visit—I'm so sorry I couldn't get back."

"Its okay—this was only our third month and actually, it probably worked out for the best. I know I ovulated—my blood test was good, so the increased medication is working." She smiled as she placed a finger in the middle of his chest. "We've got to do it at the right time—get that little egg to the right spot so one of those little swimmers can slip inside and start a baby!"

Grissom folded his arms around her again; since she had announced her intention to have a baby, she had been optimistic—even in the midst of all the tests—she remained upbeat. "You are sure about this—you think it's going to happen?"

"I know it's going to happen, Gilbert! We are healthy—I'm a bit old for a first timer, but you are fertile and these hormones are pushing out a mature egg. You've got a good sperm count—fast swimmers, the doctor said." She had teased him for months about that fact. Her smile broadened. "Surprises happen! We might have started something already—it's late in the month, but maybe—maybe that little egg is still up there, waiting for its mate to show up!" She giggled, "and with three" she held up three fingers, "times in nine hours, there might be a few thousand little Gilberts swimming around right now."

He kissed her because she looked so sexy and cute; she felt sexy as he pulled her into another hug. He asked, "Do these hormones make you sexier? Or is it just me?"

He heard a muffled laugh against his neck. Sweet, sexy, very real, as he turned her around several times in a playful dance as he hummed an old song. With him holding her tightly, Sara laughed and it was all the music he needed to hear. He was where he wanted to be…where he belonged…with the person he loved more than anyone on earth.

_A/N: Okay, thanks for reading-send a review! You got baby-making s-e-x! Now tell us-one more chapter or do you want more. We could take this one to 10 chapters, easily, but maybe not-tell us? _


	6. Chapter 6

_A/N: Sorry for the delay. Thank you for your encouragement - this one is going to 10 chapters so we did some re-writing! Thanks for reading!_

**An Unusual Sequence of Events**

**Chapter 6**

_Frustration: a feeling of disappointment _

Sixteen hours later, Sara's mind and body were so exhausted, she sank onto the bench in the locker room wishing she had not heard the innocent-edged coldness in the young boy's voice as he described his parents. She raked her fingers through her damp hair and closed her locker with her foot.

"Hey," D.B. called to her from the doorway. "Go home! Is your roving husband home from the foreign legion? Aren't you off for two weeks?"

Sara laughed, nodding her head, "Just trying to wrap my brain around all of this—four identical brothers—can you imagine? Is there no end to what can be done in the name of science?"

The tall, long-limbed supervisor took a seat beside her. "You can't let it stay with you."

Sara smiled. "I know that too well." She stretched and laughed softly. "I am going home. The roving husband is home and I am off for two weeks."

"Any special plans?"

"No," she said as she stood. "Nothing special," then she laughed. "I mean yes—every day is special."

D.B. chuckled. "Get out of here. And if I call, don't answer!"

In her car, she rolled the windows down and let the arid breeze blow-dry her hair as she drove. She felt better going home knowing her husband was there, yet Avery Brentson remained in her mind.

When she walked into the house, she knew Grissom had been busy. He had listened to the local news for awhile, but the constant chatter of "breaking news" saying the same thing over and over had grown old quickly; "giving me to much information" he told her and he had turned off the television hours before Sara had texted "not twins, triplets" and after that he had spent time doing other things.

Sara knew he had talked with his mother, answered emails and several phone calls. As she entered the house, she noticed the clothes he had unpacked were piled near the trash bin; she laughed at the sight. She had never figured out how he managed to get his clothes so dirty and stained in such a short time and these were worse than usual.

And the second she had opened her car door, she knew Grissom was cooking. Years ago, he had learned cooking was a science and he knew how to mix, marinate, blend, sauté, steam, grill, and broil. And after they had lived together for a few months, he had learned even more. From the fragrant aromas that met her nose, she knew he had been preparing her favorites by the mixed smells of lemon vinaigrette, smoky black beans, caramelized plantains, roasted vegetables, and hot bread—all within seconds of being home.

From the look on her face, Grissom did not have to ask if it had been a bad shift—the television had made that clear hours ago—but Sara's eyes brightened, a beautiful smile spread across her face as he took her coat. When he hugged her, he knew she had showered at work, doing her best to remove any trace of the lab and it's accompanying pervasive odors.

"Sit down; dinner is almost ready."

"Smells delicious," Sara said as he guided her into a chair.

He left her at the table to get glasses of water and two salads, checking on the bread heating in the oven.

"What a story," Grissom said as he sat across from her and placed salads on the table. He nodded at the plates, "One of your favorites."

She smiled as her eyes met his; he had found time to shop for groceries. The mixed sweet and bitter greens with dates and fennel marinated in lemon dressing and topped with creamy fresh feta had been one of the first meals he had ever prepared for her.

Softly, she said, "Vegas" and shook her head. "You've been busy. Thank you."

He waited; the need to talk was written across her face.

As if reading his mind, she added "I need to eat before I talk—sort of dragged this one home with me."

He took her hands across the table, his thumbs stroking the tops of her hands. He leaned forward, pulling her hands, meaning to move her toward him but finding she was already there. And across the small table, across salads and water glasses, they kissed—it was awkward, but they managed.

When they parted, Grissom said, "We can eat later."

"No—I'm hungry." She lifted her fork. "I love coming home to a meal."

Simple conversation came easily as they ate—the salads were followed by pureed smoky black beans, roasted carrots, steamed rice, grilled asparagus and mushrooms, and hot crusty bread. They talked about the research project—what they found, how much had been recorded, future plans for the project. Sara talked, but not about work, telling him of finding a field of early spring flowers when she and his mother had taken Hank to Red Rocks. And they laughed, realizing her sunny walk in a mountain meadow had been the same day he had trudged down a mountain in pouring rain.

Their talk kept her eating as he placed a plate of hot food before her; she did not hesitate to eat all of it—repeatedly saying how delicious it was.

"You know exactly what pleases me, dear," she teased.

As they cleaned the kitchen she slowly related the details of the bizarre case—the killing of a father masterminded by his child. She admitted she had pulled her gun—he frowned as he always did when he heard that. Briefly, she described the identical guys wearing the orange shirts and talking to the dead man's twelve year old son. And her return to the hotel hoping the son had witnessed something between his father and the triplets.

"I took him for ice cream before I knew," she said. "And then Archie matched his face while we were eating ice cream! Can you believe?" She shrugged her shoulders, sadly saying, "Avery reminded me of Hannah—so much potential wasted." She shook her head trying to remove thoughts and images out of her mind.

Gently, Grissom said, "Let it go, honey."

Giving a sad laugh, "I will, Gil," she said. "I almost—with Jordon Brentson's mother—the biological mother of all the boys," she sighed. "I almost choked up—she never knew the other boys—she had trusted the wrong person in her desire for a child." She gripped the dish towel in her hand until her knuckles whitened and stared out the window. "I can't go there, Gil. As much as I want a baby—we want a family" she corrected, "as much as these drugs drive my hormones, my libido, my maternal desire—I can not do that."

Her chin quivered slightly with her last words. He reached for her, not for the first time realizing how difficult it was to be optimistic. It did not matter how many research articles one read, how many college degrees they had between them, did not matter they were financially set, or how successful fertility treatments claimed to be—this was his wife, the love of his life, who stood before him. It was time for him to do more than echo her optimism and meet her in bed on certain days of the month.

He kissed her, held her tightly, giving his consent to her words without saying anything. Her mouth opened, welcoming the intimacy of his embrace.

"Come with me," he whispered. They went into the bedroom where he undressed her, folding her clothes and pulling a soft shirt over her shoulders, before removing his own clothes; they got into bed, fitted with freshly laundered sheets, Sara noticed, and cuddled together as he started a movie she loved—a series of short films, each a story of Paris, each showing a different kind of love for the city.

Sara said, "You planned this—I haven't watched this in weeks!"

"I know you love it." He said as he wrapped arms around her; she clicked her tongue for Hank to join them on the bed. Gradually, she relaxed, putting her head against his shoulder as her eyes grew heavy.

With sleep, she dreamed of running in a field of blowing grasses and flowers, edged by a great forest with giant trees and trailing vines, and when she ran through the forest, she found the desert basking in the twilight colors of red and purple and blue. A hatless, sunburned Grissom was waiting for her—laughing as he stripped his dirty clothing from his body—amazingly he was sunburned only around his neck and his arms and the rest of his body was pale pink. He laughed as he stepped out of silky black boxers, standing naked in fading light, waiting for her, his arms outspread as the rosy stem between his legs began to stiffen. She laughed—quickly, he was becoming ready for her—her voice causing him to laugh.

"You're home," she whispered.

She opened her eyes to find Grissom leaning on his elbow looking down at her, smiling, his eyes intensely blue; she felt she was seeing him for the first time in a very long time. The small creases around his eyes, the slight indentation in his chin, the curls of hair framing his face, the playful smile of his lips—caused an immediate and surprising desire. With hands as delicate as a butterfly's wings he played along her skin.

Sara reached up and touched his face; her fingers so soft he could barely feel her touch yet it reached into his chest to his heart. Her fingertips traced over his eyes, along his nose, underneath each eye, finally cupping under his chin as she pulled him into a kiss.

They had moved as one, working together, melting into each other as he fit into her hot tight passage. A spontaneous moan came as he thrust into her; he held her, kissed her, feeling her fingernails press into his back as she stiffened with ecstasy. Just as quickly as it had begun, he released his own groan as he spent himself, cradling her in his arms as her body curled and fitted into his. He closed his eyes and listened to the slow rhythm of her breathing; she had fallen asleep as quickly as she had awakened.

The days that followed were easy—they read, slept when sleepy, ate when hungry, walked and played with Hank until the dog was exhausted, and visited with Grissom's mother, Betty. One afternoon was spent in the fertility clinic with Sara going through a round of tests in preparation for a fourth cycle of medication. They spent one day buying new plants and repotting old ones, another day cleaning Grissom's office of an accumulation of journals, magazines, and books.

"We need to move this, you know."

Sara looked up from where she sat on the floor rearranging books on a bottom shelf. "Move? Where?" She asked, a puzzling frown puckering her forehead.

Smiling, he sat in one of the chairs and leaned over, placing his elbows on his knees. "The way I see it, we'll use this room as a nursery—it's small, next to us, easy to get to—and we can move the desk and bookcases to the bedroom upstairs." His eyebrow lifted slightly. "Some of this stuff, I'll move to another place."

Sara's eyes had opened in surprise and as he continued talking, her mouth dropped open.

He said, "Tomorrow, I'm going out to the university."

"Gil! We've talked about this—you love what you are doing!"

He grinned. "I did—but it's time to change. Cliff Garrett has been after me since I retired to work with his project—right here at Red Rocks. There's enough to keep us busy for years." His arms stretched toward her, rolling the chair as he did so. Sara came to her knees to meet him.

"You don't have to do this," she whispered.

"Yes, I do. We've made the decision to have a family, Sara, and I want to be here with you."

She heard a soft chuckle from deep in his chest.

He said, "In a few days, you start another round and I'm wearing full pajamas until," he held up his fingers, "until the tenth day—when that little Sara egg appears, there's going to be so many 'fast swimmers' waiting, she's going to think it's—it's a Super Bowl ticker-tape parade!"

Sara giggled, placed one finger against his chest, and said, "You never sleep in clothes, Gilbert."

_A/N: Thanks for reading-we appreciate hearing from you!_


	7. Chapter 7

_A/N: Enjoy!_

**An Unusual Sequence of Events**

**Chapter 7**

_An Interlude: a short period of time between longer periods _

Dr. Clifford Garrett was so surprised, so deliriously happy when Gil Grissom agreed to join his research project that he immediately suggested a trip into Red Rockscanyon. "We'll go in the four-wheel drive," he suggested, adding details of where to meet him. "We've had to take double precautions after announcing the dinosaur tracks—every fossil hunter in the southwest wants to find the place!"

Overhead the sky was blazing orange, the sun had past noon-time high several hours before, as Grissom parked beside a truck and trailer. Cliff Garrett was carefully backing a four-wheel drive all-terrain vehicle off the trailer—not a small one, but one with four seats and a metal top and a large cooler strapped on the back. They piled into it and headed west on a trail that was visible only to those who knew it was there.

The two men talked; Sara sat back and enjoyed the ride. The stark red, orange, and grey of the rock caused a striking contrast as limestone formations towered over their heads. She knew where they were going, following one of the established trails into a box canyon, but a right turn into another series of canyons would get them to an area out of the usual hiking territory. Somewhere in the higher canyons and hidden shadows a natural spring formed a pool of water where Dr. Garrett's research was on-going—studying the life-cycle of little dragon flies inhabiting the area.

There were a few day hikers who waved as they passed, but they were soon in an area where road runners, lizards, birds and a lone rabbit were the only curious eyes on their method of travel. Sara caught snippets of conversation between the two men in the front seat. Cliff Garrett had a sense of humor and was quietly telling Grissom a story of a young male assistant who had gotten his penis stuck in a water bottle while urinating in it.

"I tried not to laugh, but finally told the boy to sit on a rock and picture Mother Teresa in his mind! So it's not always just watching and recording," he chuckled as he glanced back at Sara, knowing she had heard the story. "Every thing that goes in, we insist it comes out but he took that a bit too literally."

For a mile, they lapsed into silence as they skirted an area that had been ravaged by a wild-fire, and then rounded a large rock where the dead burned out trees opened to a meadow of grass and late blooming wild-flowers. Nothing was dead for long in nature, Sara thought. They arrived in the canyon and instantly noticed the smell of water; Dr. Garrett pointed northward saying that's where the dinosaur footprints had been found, expressing hope that no one would disturb his hidden research station.

There was a little make-shift camp set against an outcrop of rocks, a tarp made a sloping roof for a folding table, three battered camp chairs, a large metal box that held some of the supplies and equipment. About forty feet away and twenty feet over their heads, a sparkling little stream of water streaked the limestone before it fell into a small pond. While the men talked, Sara walked around it, amazed at the presence of so much wildlife—fluttering wings of dragon flies and the soft chirps made by tiny frogs—none seemed perturbed by her presence. An abundance of plants grew around the edge of the water—grasses, flowers, several small trees—providing a home for even more wildlife, butterflies, bees, birds, even a small turtle shared the space.

They remained in the canyon for several hours; the men talked while Sara meandered around the area hiding a restlessness of her own. Hormones, she thought, worked in weird ways and the ones she was taking hyped her emotions as well as her senses. Her skin prickled; she flushed easily, and her thoughts drifted frequently to one thing—not what was happening in this remote canyon.

Walking around the area, Sara found evidence of dozens of larger animals who came for water and she spotted several nests of the cactus wren. She was watching a towhee, easily identified by its red sides and black and white underbelly, when Grissom and Dr. Garrett called to her.

Fading sunlight made a dancing display of changing colors as they weaved back onto the dusty trail. Dr. Garrett pointed out tiny orange reflectors set along the path.

"In case you stay out here too long," he said. "Don't want anyone wandering around out here in the middle of the night." He gave a now familiar laugh. "One day I had to walk out because I ran out of gas—that happens once and you remember to check the gas gauge!"

Back at home, Sara could not wait to peel off her clothes; sweaty, dusty and buzzing with hormones, she examined her face in the mirror before stepping into the shower. She did not look forty, she thought, and wondered if anyone ever thought they looked their age. She pulled her hair back and watched it curl around her fingers. If she used a brush and blow-dried her hair, it was straighter now; the curls of her youth had relaxed, not quite so wiry and energetic.

Her hand brushed dust from her cheek and her eyes went to the photographs she had put on the bathroom wall. She smiled. These were her private ones, of Grissom in funny or provocative poses, several of the two of them in varying stages of dress that no visitor would see. Not nude photographs, just moments of having fun with each other. She stepped into the shower which is where Grissom found her a few minutes later.

"Dinner," he announced, "I'll fix grilled cheese if you'll do salads."

She opened the shower, laughing as she grabbed his arm. "Get in here, Gilbert. I need you now—now," she laughed, "and all you wanted to do was stay out in that damn desert!"

Immediately, his face brightened; he laughed, lighthearted, joyous. "This is not one of the usual side effects, you know." He was pulling his shirt over his head and toeing his feet out of his shoes without further coaxing.

Within minutes, their bodies slippery with soap, desire reached a fevered pitch as Sara's hands gently, yet firmly wrapped around his body, his lips fixed against hers as he lifted her up, centered her across his hips, and then lowered her slowly onto his very rigid erection, using the tiled wall as a brace.

Sara's breath caught against the closeness of their bodies. Her private desire—now shared with her husband—became perfect pleasure. Her eyes, her mind, her soul became possessed by the beautiful, flawless body holding her tightly; his muscles seemed a strong liquid beneath his smooth skin. The bud of her clitoris felt huge, swollen, throbbing against the softness of thick curls. When he was snugly inside her, her body quivered, tensed, and very quickly came the soft powerful explosion of her orgasm. She lost contact with the world for a moment in its sweet rush. When she felt him come, the walls of her vagina squeezed, wave after wave of contractions pulled at him as if to suck every drop of semen from him.

When it was over, they were both a little amazed and stood together, Sara's hands still on Grissom's butt, one leg still wrapped around his thighs.

Grissom recovered first, saying, "That was a surprise." He laughed in a warm, comforting way but did not let her go.

Sara moved her hand to his neck, managed to keep her balance on one foot, and pulled him into a deep kiss. When she finally spoke, it was a giggle, followed by a whisper in his ear, "It was those frogs—all of them copulating around that pond!"

She did eat a grilled cheese sandwich, in bed, brought to her on a tray by her husband. Flushed, smiling, relaxed, stretching after she ate, and if she had given him any passionate signal, he would have been ready again. But she yawned, barely able to keep her eyes open. He kissed her, gently, feeling the softness of her lips pressed against his. As he lifted the tray from the bed, she curled underneath covers and smiled. Before he was out of the room, he knew she was asleep.

After taking Hank for a short walk, he returned to the bedroom and found her in the same position—a smile played along her mouth as she slept. Watching Sara, peaceful, restful, soundly sleeping, he realized a change had happened to both of them. They had a good life, of simple things, of a loving camaraderie that many couples never achieved. Cliff Garrett had commented on it today out in the canyon. He crawled into bed and drifted to sleep, feeling Sara's heart next to his.

Their days and nights were easy, passed in a comfortable tedium of every day activities. Grissom worked on his book; the final copy had gone to a small publisher and an agent had grand ideas for shopping the specialized book at conferences if Grissom was willing to be a speaker. For many months they had found so little time for normal life that the days were never long enough, the nights were too short. Their daily routine was disrupted only when Sara did all the necessary tasks listed by her physician—she carefully charted her temperature, she checked for mucus changes, and the obligatory sex was never a problem. All she had to do was glance at her husband and a rush of heat shot straight from her brain to her clitoris; or maybe it started between her legs and rushed to her brain. She did not care; she just knew her sex drive had never been like this—all she thought about was getting laid and Grissom was delighted.

Before Sara returned to work, unexpectedly, Catherine called. "I'm in town, Sara! Let's get together—I've so much to tell you!"

Sara made plans for dinner and called Nick, Greg, and Brass, all promising to show up at the appointed time.

"Bring only yourself," Sara insisted when Nick asked what he should bring.

She and Grissom set up a temporary dining table—a solution they had worked out several years before. Sliding their two small round tables together, they placed a large oval wooden board over the two tables which provided enough seating for everyone at one table.

And, as they had done on many occasions for these friends, they shopped and cooked. As they filled a grocery cart, Sara was edgy. She knew the ovulation drug was doing what it was supposed to do—she was warm all over and, surprising her, Grissom, and her physician because it was not a common side effect, her sex drive surged for five days after she completed her meds and took several more days to diminish. Watching Grissom bend over to get a box of pasta made her want to jump him from behind—right in the grocery store aisle. She breathed, slowly, in and out, and looked up at the ceiling, a now familiar flush of warmth spreading over her body.

"Hey!" Grissom called to her as he threw pasta and rice in the cart, "Are you daydreaming?"

"No, I'm trying to cool off."

"Oh," he said. He knew she had flushes that could be uncomfortable. "I'll get you a bottle of water."

She caught up with him. "Unless I jam it down my pants, it won't cool me off," she whispered. "I'm going to have to take a month off if next month is this bad!" She waved her hand as a fan.

Laughing, Grissom placed an arm around her, hugging her close. "You are pregnant—I know you are! You've never been like this—never! And it's not because you're horny all the time—that's nice, but there're other things going on."

She reached for a melon, giving him a quizzical glance. "What does that mean? I think it's having you around all the time!" She giggled. "Just can't keep my hands off that cute butt!"

He dodged her playful hand, looking around at other shoppers who were oblivious of their teasing. He picked up a mango, saying "You're like this mango." He leaned to her ear and whispered, "Ripe, just the right amount of softness. Sometimes you are a little tangy, other times you are more of an orange, pineapple, peach blend. Always pleasing, succulent, but lately—last few days, you are more grape-peach with a little apple flavor." He smirked a grin. "And in Eastern culture mangos are considered to be highly heating foods," he was chuckling out loud. "And you're hot!"

Sara reached for a large mango. "Well, tonight, Gilbert, you are eating mangos at the table with company—keep that description of me in mind while you're eating."

Picking up two more mangos, he performed a quick juggle with the two, a wide grin across his face. "We're having a baby, Sara! I know it!"

Later, Sara opened the door to welcome Catherine, the last of their visitors to arrive for dinner. The men knew they might be called for an early start of their shift, so they had arrived early and were already eating crudités and chips with an assortment of dips and drinking favorite beers, making enough noise for a gathering twice their number.

As Sara opened the door, she thought Catherine might have changed yet she was just as remembered, laughing, brightly dressed in unstated elegance, her hair falling in a mass of red-gold around her face only to be quickly tossed back as she entered the house. Her voice bubbled as she entered, "Sara! You got everyone to come!" And then Catherine was the center of attention as the four men turned toward her.

Sara played hostess to their guests; everyone had a drink, everyone was eating, and everyone was talking as four or five conversations bounced between the long-time friends. Chairs shifted, elbows moved, and conversation changed to food as Sara placed bowls and platters on the table. Years ago, their friends learned what to expect when Sara prepared food and today was no exception. No meats were on the table but bright red, orange, and green melon slices, fresh tomatoes seasoned with basil and blended oils, feta cheese and green grapes, pasta tossed with sesame oil, peanut butter and ginger, thinly shredded Savoy cabbage and red onions, seasoned rice mixed with black beans and ginger meant hamburgers and steaks were not missed. Several sauces, dips, and spreads were added to the table along with an assortment of breads. No one would leave the table wanting more to eat and for several minutes, their talk subsided as food was passed and tasted.

At some point in the meal, all the men were talking, Sara had gotten up again for something, and Catherine was sitting quietly for a moment. She watched Sara, who had returned to the table with wine and for a fleeting moment, Grissom glanced up with a murmured "thanks" on his lips. Catherine saw him in profile; Sara's face was tilted downward. In seconds, the air rushed out of her lungs as she recognized the look—quickly, her eyes moved to the others. No one else noticed; men would not notice. With unexpected clarity, Catherine knew Sara was pregnant—radiating an assured, unconscious sexuality that was almost indecent—or she wanted to be and would be soon if the man gazing up at her used his keen technical brain to kick his masculinity into high gear.

And Sara had water in her wine glass.

Catherine laughed out loud causing everyone to look in her direction. Things had changed in the Grissom household; this bloom was new, and she realized Grissom was part of this. During dinner, while he was talking to everyone else, his eyes searched for Sara all the time, weren't content unless they rested on Sara.

Quickly, Catherine recovered from her thoughts, asking, "How long will you be home, Gil?"

He laughed. "A long time. I've signed on with Dr. Garrett at the university. He has so much going on right now and he's happy to have help."

"You're not traveling?"

"Not now," he said. "I'm happy to be here." His arm circled Sara's waist—protective, possessive, Catherine thought. "And I think my wife is too."

Sara's fingers threaded into Grissom's hair, more white than Catherine remembered; just as quickly as everyone had looked in her direction, conversation picked up and continued. A few minutes later, Sara said:

"Dessert, everyone? Gil wanted mangos, so we have pound cake, mangos and whipped cream. Delicious mangos too—sort of a peachy-apple flavor!"

As Sara brought the dessert to the table, Catherine saw the quick glances between Grissom and Sara. Even as they ate, secret signals passed between the couple. Catherine could not stop the smile from forming on her face. More white hair on his head now than a decade ago, but obviously a passionate fire was burning. Catherine left with the others, promising to call before she left town. She knew what would happen as soon as the door was safely closed—and it wasn't cleaning the kitchen. She laughed all the way back to her house.

_A/N: Thanks so much for reading-and special thanks to those who review! Life interfers for a week or so, next chapter a bit delayed. _


	8. Chapter 8

_A/N: Thanks for reading!_

**An Unusual Sequence of Events**

**Chapter 8**

_A delightful consequence_

Surprising herself most of all, Sara demonstrated a surprising aptitude for pregnancy. As her abdomen swelled, she found her body bloomed and her mind seemed to move into another dimension. She could count the times she had been physically sick on one hand and now, other than a few nauseous moments, and certain circumstances—certain smells—brought on vomiting, she experienced none of the usual discomforts of early pregnancy. If anything, there were more positive effects than negative ones; she slept soundly, she was actually hungry when it was time to eat. And the sex drive that had overtaken her before pregnancy lingered. All she had to do was think of sex with her husband and her panties were damp; secretly, she had thought about sex with other men just to see if she was turning into some kind of fictional sex fiend, but her thoughts had no physical effect. Her body desired one man.

Even more, Grissom's reaction to her pregnancy was simply amazing. He had professed willingness for fatherhood before the fact—many men did that. And after it became fact, he read voraciously including a best-selling pregnancy book which he tucked in the bag he took everywhere. He went with her to every appointment, dreadfully unaware of what actually went on inside an obstetrical examining room, but neither shy nor inhibited, he quickly learned. And his affectionate responses warmed Sara, tapped into a desire that was returned with complete passion.

As soon as the physician decided it was safe, barely three months into the pregnancy, in a different, sterile-appearing procedure room, with more equipment than the usual exam room, Grissom attempted to keep his nervousness from showing as he stood against a wall and watched preparations for a procedure that would reveal much.

"A girl," he silently prayed, "please let our baby be a girl." Gil Grissom did not often pray but today he did. A daughter to keep her company when he was gone, he added to his heavenly request. He wasn't asking for a long life; he had come to terms with that issue before they ever married. "A healthy girl," was his very private prayer.

He kept his private mantra running through his mind as he watched. Sara was stretched on the exam table chatting with the women in the room, her physician, one prepping her belly for an amniocentesis, another doing some other check. Already they had heard the fluttering steady beat of the baby's heart. They had seen ultrasound images that revealed everything—feet, fingers, two legs, two arms, a perfect spine, a tiny little nose—but nothing to indicate gender.

"Shy little one," the physician said with a laugh as she had studied the image of little baby Grissom.

They had announced the pregnancy to only one other; not yet, Sara insisted. "We will keep this secret until we are sure—no reason to share until we know it's safe."

The exception was Grissom's mother; Sara had announced it to Betty; signing "Are you ready to be a grandmother?" For a moment, his mother's eyes had widened and then a smile split across her face. He was almost positive his mother had kept the smile since that day.

He was jerked back from his remembrances by his wife's voice. "Yes, he's staying" and everyone in the room shifted and made a space; one handing him a surgical mask and gown while the doctor instructed him to keep his hands underneath the sheet or in his lap.

"Hold my hand, Gil," Sara suggested.

As soon as he had the gown on, he took her hand in both of his, leaning to kiss her forehead as he took a seat on a rolling stool. Weeks ago, he had decided the medical side of baby-making belonged to women. They moved in and out of the exam rooms as easily as wind blew leaves. They talked in medical abbreviations and discussed anatomy in terms that left him confused—and he thought he knew scientific names for every part of the human body-much of what was said was new and foreign to his ears.

As the doctor and two women talked in hushed voices, Grissom prayed again for a girl child. He knew about boys—he had been one—girls had to be better children. Girls were clean, cute, and cuddly, and loved their mothers. Mothers could depend on daughters and daughters took care of their mothers. So unlike boys—he was so deep in his thoughts, he did not realize someone had said something.

The procedure was finished—quickly, he thought as he looked up to see the nurse and the physician smiling. The doctor had the ultrasound transducer in her hand and was slowly moving it in circles, watching the screen.

"Are you sure you want to know? I think this baby is ready to reveal!" She quickly clicked the image on screen.

Immediately, almost together, Sara and Grissom said "Yes!" Then they both laughed.

The doctor kept moving the hand held device, watching the screen. A minute later, she said "Yes! That's it! Have you got a name picked out?"

"No," Sara quietly said.

Laughing, the physician pointed to the screen. "She needs a name! Look at that!"

"Yes!" The loud exclamation came so quickly out of Grissom's mouth that in ordinary circumstances he would have been embarrassed. "A girl!" A smile spread across his face; he looked at Sara who was also smiling. "A daughter—a little girl!" He kissed her again, adding, "Just like her mom!"

Later, Sara teased him about his continuing smile which seemed to grow wider at the mention of the word "daughter".

He said, "We're going to have a daughter, Sara." He actually made a sound very nearly a giggle. "A little girl who will look like you!" When she gave him an amusing glance, he continued, "She'll be sweet like you—smart—love her daddy." With more relief than he could express, he said, "I'm delighted we're having a girl." Silently, he thanked God.

Patiently and uncomplainingly, Sara waited as days, and then weeks passed. By the end of her fourth month, and after good results from all the tests, she knew it was time to share their news. Most of the time pregnancy agreed with her, enhanced her beauty, and when she announced it, Nick, Greg, Dave, and D.B. had already guessed—or claimed to have.

"How did you know?" Sara asked Greg an hour after she had made her public announcement and he and Nick had quietly whispered they suspected something was "up".

Greg's mischievous grin mimicked a Cheshire cat. "Grissom's home—to stay! What made you think we wouldn't figure it out?"

Nick, standing across the table, sniggered.

"What?" Sara demanded.

Nick straightened his face, trying to appear serious, looking to Greg for back-up. Greg kept his face down, trying without success to suppress his laughter.

"What is so funny?" Sara questioned a second time. She reached across the table and pulled several papers away from Nick's view. "Tell or I'm keeping everything."

Nick glanced at Greg again. "You were puking in the morgue—twice—weeks ago. Well, Super Dave heard you and told us. How many times have you done that? In all the years—I know one time—and then you didn't act sick." He did an exaggerated shrug of his shoulders and in a voice playful and teasing said, "We are investigators—we can put together the evidence!"

He would never reveal a closely guarded secret among a number of men in the lab—a growing pool of cash—betting when Sara Sidle Grissom would get knocked up by the old guy she married. Neither Nick nor Greg would ever tell Sara of the bets made and the amount of money won by Lou Vartann and David Hodges, of all people.

Easily, Sara grew into her second trimester. If she worried, it was not apparent. If she was apprehensive, she did not voice it. Those who had worked with her for longer than a decade expressed amazement in the first weeks of learning Sara was pregnant, but then most realized Sara had been mothering for years as she went about her work without expecting special favors or expressing a need for anything out of the ordinary. And she was so unruffled by all the excitement generated by her pregnancy, she was usually unaware of the quiet way her supervisor assigned cases. After one brutally bloody case, she did not reject D.B.'s offer to handle more paperwork, quietly grateful he understood her circumstances without making a big issue of her pregnancy. Gradually, without calling attention to herself, she reduced her hours yet remained on a regular schedule.

Grissom was anxious and made no effort to hide it; he talked with anyone who had ever had children and wasn't afraid to ask dozens of questions. The men laughed; the women thought he was sweet. The nurses at the physician's office patted his shoulder and smiled. The men told him everything would work out—it usually did. The women suggested he tend to his research, his book, and cook dinner for his pregnant wife. The nurses liked him; the physician gave him books to read.

And Grissom loved watching Sara, loved watching her face, loved running his hands over her growing abdomen, loved making love to her in a sweet, gentle way, caressing every part of her body. They were well suited to this life, he thought, often wondering why they had waited so many years for this. Working fewer hours gave Sara more daylight hours so she often rode with him when he went to the research station, and then she'd sleep in the shade while he checked the pond and made notes.

Slowly their office became a nursery—for every frilly pink ruffle he picked up, Sara shook her head and selected practical—a crib, a rocking chair, a small dresser, a few gowns and sleepers. His mother was a model of restraint, backing up Sara's decision, both women saying "a baby doesn't need much." But when Catherine arrived bearing gifts, Sara stood in open-mouth awe as blankets, gowns, lacy caps, sleepers, and tiny shoes and socks in soft pastel colors soon covered every surface.

"This is too much, Catherine!" Sara exclaimed as Catherine kept pulling exquisite items from a very large shopping bag.

Grissom watched the two women and grinned. He knew Catherine—she never asked, she acted. When she learned their baby was a girl, she had said, "I love to shop!" From the looks of things, she had shopped at every baby store between Miami and Seattle with detours east and west.

Weeks went by with surprising swiftness; five weeks before her due date, Sara left her shift for the last time. The lab crew and an unexpected number of law enforcement officers showed up to celebrate her last night; everyone had contributed to the expensive jogging stroller sitting in the break room and Lou and David had used their hard-won cash to make sure it was a top-line model with all the extras.

A week later, Grissom flew to San Diego for his first conference to promote his book. He was excited, yet apprehensive—he hated to leave Sara.

"I'll be fine," she insisted. "You're home in two days. Catherine is here—ten minutes away—and little Isabella isn't due for four weeks."

He grinned; Isabella, the name of his grandmother, and a variation of his own mother's name. Betty Grissom was flying on a cloud; she had almost lost hope of ever becoming a grandparent and now she would soon have a granddaughter. Every day, she arrived to 'help' Sara. The uneasiness between the two women had disappeared—Grissom wasn't sure when it had happened, but by the time Sara shared her desire for a baby, his wife and his mother were friends. Now they spent hours talking about everything; months ago, Sara's signing had become second nature and he frequently heard them giggling like school girls over something.

Reluctant yet excited, he landed in San Diego and headed to the downtown hotel.

_A/N: Thanks so much for reading! We do appreciate your encouragement in your reviews!_


	9. Chapter 9

_A/N: Another chapter-thanks so much for reading!_

**An Unusual Sequence of Events**

**Chapter 9**

_A perfect arrival_

Sleep came easily to Sara. Pregnancy sleep, she called it. She could sleep in a chair, on the sofa, in the bed, while watching television, riding in a car, out in the canyon, in darkness or in the middle of the day. She would dream, not the nightmares she'd had for so long, but of no place she recognized. Her dreams were of gentle places with nothing to fear, of cool, sunny places, or hazy faces that passed her by, but nothing that disturbed her sleep. But with her husband out of town she was restless, only managing to doze for a few minutes before she had to get up and walk around. She was uncomfortable for no reason other than late pregnancy; her back hurt and she was lonely. Slowly, she walked through the house, hands massaging her lower back.

When the phone rang and Catherine's voice asked how she was doing, Sara quickly lied and said "Fine!" And then Catherine was inviting herself over, bringing dinner, she added, and would be there in fifteen minutes. Sara suspected her husband had put Catherine up to this.

Before fifteen minutes had passed, the doorbell rang followed by three quick knocks. Hank gave a friendly bark welcoming Greg with his signature announcement of his arrival so Sara swung the door open to see two round cartons of ice cream being held in two hands. Greg's smiling face framed between the ice cream containers.

"Dessert," Greg said with a laugh as he stepped into the house. "Catherine called and said you two needed male companionship for dinner—was I free—so here I am."

Sara waved him inside and he kicked the door closed with his foot asking "How are you feeling, Mama?" He had been asking her this question for weeks.

Wiggling her hand, she said, "Back aches. Can't seem to do anything to relieve it."

Greg grinned. "You are carrying around a little load on the front, you know. Sit down; I'll get you something to drink."

She shook her head. "Everything I drink runs right through me." She laughed. "Too much information—I'll take water!"

The doorbell rang again; this time Hank ran to the door and waited, wagging his tail, until Sara opened the door for Catherine. In a flurry of activity, Catherine was inside, carrying several food boxes that she deposited in Greg's hands then turned to pet the dog, all the while asking one question after another.

"How are you? How's little Isabella? Did Gil get to San Diego? Hope you are ready for Battista's Italian—Eggplant Parmigiana and salad!" She hugged Sara, reached to Greg and gave him a playful pat on his cheek. "Always good to see you, Greg."

Within minutes, food, plates, drinks, and the assorted implements for dining were on the table and the three friends were passing containers around the small table. When Sara stretched to place the salad on the bar, she winced and placed her hand on her belly, just under her left breast.

"You okay?" Catherine asked; both she and Greg watched the grimace on Sara's face quickly disappear yet her hand stayed on her abdomen.

"Oh, yes, I'm fine. Just a back ache and Isabella's foot is giving my ribs a pounding."

Catherine reached over and placed her hand beside Sara's. For a full minute, their hands stayed on her belly. An odd expression formed on Catherine's face.

"How long have you been feeling these? How long has this been going on?" asked Catherine, her voice edged with uneasiness. She moved her hand to another spot on Sara's abdomen. "When's your due date? A month, right?"

"Is she in labor?" Greg asked. He was holding a fork in mid-air.

Sara laughed. "No, I'm not in labor. It's false contractions, Catherine."

"When's your next appointment?"

Again, Sara laughed. "Weekly. I'm going in every week now—high risk pregnancy—which means I'm over forty and having my first baby." Nervously, she laughed. "To be perfectly honest, I don't feel well—back hurts, can't sleep," glancing at Greg, she continued, "have to pee all the time."

Catherine dropped her napkin and stood. "Greg, put all this food away—doesn't your doctor's office have late hours?"

"Catherine!" Sara protested. "Let's eat—I'm fine!"

Motioning to Greg, Catherine said, "No, I'm going to take charge—if I'm wrong, we'll be back home in a couple of hours."

Greg started clearing the table.

Sara stayed in her chair, insisting, "I don't think this is labor!"

"And how many babies have you had? Let's go get you checked out. Do you have a bag packed? We'll slip in and have a nurse check you out. If it's not labor, you'll sleep better. I'll sleep better!" Catherine placed hands on her hips and Greg was putting food in the refrigerator.

Protesting, but feeling so oddly out of sorts and the backache wasn't getting any better, Sara finally agreed to go. She did call her physician's office and heard an affirmative answer when she asked if she should come in.

Greg helped fasten Sara's seatbelt and crawled into the back seat of Catherine's new car. "Nice," he said. When both women looked at him, he said, "I'm going! If Grissom can't be here, I get to be the stand-in dad!"

Catherine cranked the car and chuckled.

Sara said, "This baby isn't coming until he gets home—and she isn't due for another month." She leaned forward so she could get her hand against her lower back. "If this backache would go away, I'd be fine."

Catherine shot a worried glance toward her passenger and accelerated onto the street.

An obstetrical nurse practitioner examined Sara thoroughly, then summoned Catherine into the room.

"Sara says her husband is in San Diego. You need to call him—get him back as quickly as possible." The nurse took Sara's hand. "This baby isn't going to wait a week much less a month."

Turning to face Catherine, Sara's eyes filled with tears. Catherine tried to blink the fright from her own. "It's too early, Catherine. She's not big enough."

"Now, Sara," the nurse said, her manner serious yet caring, "we'll get you settled into a room, lots of monitors going. See if we can slow down your labor. Little Isabella weighs around four pounds—she'll be fine!"

Catherine stepped closer to Sara and took her hand and squeezed it; with her right hand she brushed Sara's hair away from her face. The change in Sara had been sudden and dramatic; worry etched her face, the downward turn of her mouth, tear filled eyes, an unusual paleness of her skin. Catherine wanted desperately to help her friend.

She said, "Everything will be fine, Sara! You'll have Isabella for Christmas! How much fun will that be?" Her mind was working on logistics—Grissom in San Diego—she needed to be making phone calls, but Sara needed her here.

The nurse was talking about moving Sara in a wheelchair. "The doctor is already at the hospital. We'll get you transported over—you've had your tour and know about labor and delivery, right?"

Sara was nodding as the nurse helped her sit up.

As the nurse kept talking Catherine realized the woman was experienced in calming frightened patients. "Sometimes the back pain is the most elusive type of labor—not consistent enough for a woman to know its labor." The nurse smiled. "You did the right thing coming in. It's not an emergency right now, but in the middle of the night it might have been." The woman's hand lifted Sara's foot, examining it carefully. "We'll move you over to the hospital in a wheelchair."

After the nurse left, Sara said, "I need to call Gil, Catherine." Her voice choked. "He was so excited about this trip—talking about his book with—with other bug guys." She closed her eyes and tears bubbled along her lashes. "Everything has gone so perfectly, Catherine. It's like a dream—and now this."

"Now come on, sweetie, no gloomy thoughts! I'll call Gil—even get him a flight and he'll be here before you know it." Smiling, she tossed her hair and flicked her finger toward Sara's folded pants. "Need help?" When Sara shook her head, Catherine said "I'll step outside for a minute. I don't know why they have all the signs 'no cell phones' but I'll go outside."

Sara was nodding her head and blowing her nose when Catherine left the room, pulling out her phone before the door closed. In seconds she had a confirmed seat for the one hour flight and then she called Grissom.

For two hours every fear that had ever entered a husband's mind filtered and lingered in Gil Grissom's brain. Even while he was talking with Sara, sometimes with Catherine, and once with Greg, he was in a state of confusion—stunned at the sudden turn of events. Sara had been fine when he left her; he knew she had felt fine—no backache—he would have known. All the information in books he had read were in his thoughts, round and round, until the plane touched down in Las Vegas. As he left the plane, only one other person would have made him happier; Nick was standing on the jet bridge, smiling and opening a door to a metal stairway leading to the tarmac and his black SUV.

"Catherine says they are waiting on you! Sara's fine, baby's fine. Just ready to get here."

Grissom stumbled on the steep steps, caught himself as Nick turned. "They are okay, Grissom. Honest. I wouldn't lie."

"Thanks, Nick." Grissom crawled into the cool vehicle. "I would never have left her if I had known."

"Ahhh, man! Of course you wouldn't have! Greg says if Catherine had not insisted, Sara would not have realized she was in labor until things got real scary. Now, they got her labor slowed." Nick continued to explain in some detail what was happening; more information than Grissom would have guessed he knew about labor.

And then Nick was stopping at the hospital's entrance, telling him to get out, and he'd see them later. "Sara's waiting!" Nick laughter rumbled, "And congratulations, Dad!"

For a little longer than two hours, Sara kept insisting her baby would not be born until the father walked into the room. She had been taken to a well-equipped delivery suite for premature deliveries that contained even more monitoring equipment than the normal labor-delivery rooms; a specialized infant care area was set into an adjoining area. She counted fourteen people in the room at one time, including Greg, Catherine, and Betty standing near the door. Then she counted the lines and leads attached to her body and laughed when she realized there was one attachment for each person in the room.

When Grissom entered the room, he saw nothing and no one but Sara—and she was smiling. And kissing him, tangling him up in some of the wires and tubes attached to her. Laughing, tremulous, but laughing.

He took the chair someone pushed behind him and for a time, there was no one else; just the two lovers surrounded by physicians, nurses, technicians, and who knows who else, but they seemed unaware of anyone else. Just as Sara predicted, with some help from medications, little Isabella Grissom waited for her daddy to arrive before she made her grand entrance into the world. The baby barely had to fight her way through the birth canal; small she was and her mother was made for having babies. Arriving a month before her due date, weighing four pounds and a few ounces, the baby girl colored a healthy pink and let everyone know her lungs were in good condition minutes after birth.

When baby Isabella was placed in Sara's arms, a transformation, or what many call a miracle, occurred. Tears ran down the faces of the couple and in an instant they went from man and woman, husband and wife, to father and mother. In a while, when their friends and the child's grandmother joined them, everyone noticed the somewhat dazed and humbled expressions on the new parent's faces.

The perfect, beautiful little girl, with delicate arched eyebrows and a cap of soft dark hair already indicating her coloring would likely be her mother's, slept quietly in a sophisticated incubator with temperature and light regulated and monitors for heart and lung function.

"But she gets to stay with me for now," Sara explained. "She's nursing well. She opens her eyes and waves her little arms."

"She's advanced," Grissom added, a prideful boast accepted by everyone in the room. "Didn't take her nine months—I think she might be a genius!"

Baby Isabella thrived on her mother's milk and behaved perfectly, or so the parents reported. In some mysterious way, a notation on a chart or a misfiled report, Sara's hospital stay coincided with the release of her baby so a few days after delivery mother and baby were discharged from the hospital. Sara sat in the back seat beside Isabella as a nervous Grissom drove home.

"I've seen this," he laughed. "Woman in the back seat and the man in the front—I've just realized it was because of a baby!" He laughed and reached back to touch Sara's knee.

At six weeks of age Isabella was sleeping through the night; she continued to gain weight and her progress suggested to everyone from grandmother to pediatrician that the baby was developing ahead of her age.

"Her eyes are blue," Betty signed one afternoon after handing her granddaughter back to her mother. "Not like Gil's" she continued. "Vivid. Her own color." The older woman took one of the baby's legs in her hand, cradling it for a few minutes. Signing, she said, "Except for her eyes, she is going to look like you."

That night, for the first time, and after the longest break in relations since their marriage, Sara came to bed wearing nothing but a soft blue teddy. Grissom's hand reached for hers, bringing her gently into an embrace; the muted light from the nursery showed a look of wonder and beauty in her eyes before their lips closed on a kiss, soft and tentative. In minutes, the emotions and sensations pushed aside for weeks filled them, so splendid that neither knew anything beyond hands, flesh, and mouths seeking gratification. When he eased her shoulders out of the teddy to bare her full breasts and gather them against his chest, a stab of utter pleasure shook him until he groaned.

And Sara responded. As her husband's hands laced into her hair, she felt a flush of sensation that spread down her spine. He kissed her neck, making a necklace of kisses that barely brushed her flesh yet she squirmed under the heat of his lips. When he came into her, deep arcing motions of her pelvis communicated her urgent need for him. She felt him try to pull out—thinking he was moving too fast, wanting to prolong their pleasure—but her body refused to allow it and soon his powerful finishing strokes began.

It seemed to Sara she was nothing but a wet pool, giving way to his thrusts, a smooth tongue of rapture licked through her when he came, flooding her with bliss as she rose on her own wave, a long spasm of her pleasurable orgasm. They lay for a while, quiescent, tired.

Sara moved her hand along Grissom's abdomen, up to his chest and finally rested her fingers at his jaw. One finger found his mouth. "I love you, Gil."

He kissed her finger. "Sara, dear, you know in our haste we used nothing."

Sara laughed, softly, a carefree sound echoing their very recent joy. "I'm not worried. Breast feeding usually has some effect on postponing fertility, but truth is," she giggled, "I want another baby." Her words faded to a whisper in his ear.

She felt the rumble in his chest before she heard the low happy chuckle he made. "Another one—little Isa is only six weeks old and you want another one?"

"It took a while to get her started, you know."

His deep laugh came again, this time very close to her ear as he turned to face her. "Another baby—you really think we're up to a second one." His hand slipped around to her backside. "Don't you need time to recover?"

She laughed. "I'm recovering—and Isabella should have a sibling. So she isn't spoiled. So she isn't alone, surrounded by adults."

"I love you, Sara," he whispered as he hugged her tightly, able to see her smile in the faint light from a nursery that was definitely going to be too small.

_A/N: We do appreciate your support. One more chapter to this one. _


	10. Chapter 10

_A/N: Thank you for reading, for supporting us with your reviews and friendship, and this story comes to an end! Enjoy...and leave us a review!_

**An Unusual Sequence of Events**

**Chapter 10**

_An ordinary sequence of events _

Back to brown, tan and red, back to dusty sand, back to the arid sparseness of the desert; no profligate green growth here. From the air, the land appeared to be painted as a palette of uninhabited, barren wasteland, yet it was far from that. The city of Las Vegas had always had an artificial image, had always managed to outlast the droughts, but the last few years had caused massive changes. The ground, lawns, gardens, and surviving overgrowth were shades of brown, the mountains showed their range of colors as a backdrop, and the sky remained an intense blue but there wasn't much green.

Yet whenever she came back to Las Vegas, Sara experienced a feeling of coming home. No matter how long she had been absent, a few days or months on end, she returned with a sense of happiness, the knowledge of where she belonged. It was her home, the first real home she had ever had. She had loved and been loved here—not just her husband, but her friends, discovered what it meant to be a wife, a mother. She glanced at the two people beside her; two people she loved more than life itself.

Her baby Isabella was snug in her carrier, safely strapped in, and sleeping soundly. Their baby, Sara smiled, beautiful, perfect, growing into a delicate toddler. At nine months she was already taking her first steps, already talking, already speaking many understandable words as she chattered away, already questioning in her baby language. Her father was enchanted and she adored him, so obvious in the way she held out her arms to him, clutched him as soon as he picked her up. Her eyes were her most striking feature, widely set, widely opened, and the deep unusual turquoise blue of a tropical sea with tiny streaks of gold; they would fix on him intently and, her infant prettiness in full bloom, he showed her off as one would a trophy.

Sara's husband, Isabella's father, sat in the aisle seat; he had already checked the baby and put his book away in preparation for landing. Tanned, blue-eyed, full of good humor and laughter, she could barely remember not loving him. Gil Grissom, the one true love of her life, she thought, was as amazing as a father as he was a husband. She loved Isabella with all her heart, but for her husband, she loved him with every fiber in her body now and yet to come and had from almost the first day they met. Years later, he told her he had fallen in love with her that day—struck by lightning, he said. It had taken a long time before feelings were disclosed and then passion, desire, and love overruled everything else, so crazily in love in their own little world nothing else seemed to matter.

Their eyes met across the seat holding their daughter and both smiled. He reached across and took her hand; she turned and looked out of the plane's window.

The first time she had set eyes on Las Vegas she had been awed by its imposing beauty—a glittering city in the sunlight, surrounded by miles and miles of open desert, the whole set in a natural basin created by rocky mountains that rose up to encircle the entire area. Much had changed in the years since, more glitter, taller buildings, miles and miles of urban sprawl, yet the desert was still there. The mountains stood in majestic colors surrounding the city.

The scene quickly changed as the jet descended and the city, the runway, the terminal came into view. She looked at her husband, squeezing his hand, as the wheels touched down.

"I'm happy to be home," she said.

"So am I."

Three weeks ago, they had flown east, across the country, for a federal law enforcement training program where Grissom would serve as a teaching fellow to a different group each week. Their friend, Catherine Willows, had been instrumental in making the arrangements and she had arranged to share a rental house with the small family. And they had shared their news—a second baby, a boy, expected after New Years Day.

Catherine had practically screamed with delight before turning on Grissom. "Thirteen months apart! Are you crazy? Sara hasn't had time to recover! What were you thinking?" Catherine quickly worked out the math. "Isabella was only four months old!"

Sara and Grissom had laughed knowing Catherine's accusations were a typical response from their friend. Grissom pointed his thumb at Sara. He said, "It was all Sara! She came at me!"

Sara had taken blame—or credit—for this second pregnancy just as she had decided on the first. As the two women settled Isabella into a portable crib, Sara brought Catherine up to date—morning sickness had persisted for weeks, almost from the first positive test and just as suddenly had disappeared. Using the newest fetal testing, the baby boy was healthy, growing as he should.

"It had taken so long for me to get pregnant with Isabella—I thought—well, I wanted a second one," Sara explained with a laugh. "And we're having a boy!"

For three weeks, Grissom and Catherine left every morning, spending most of the day inside the small convention center, and Sara took little Isabella for long stroller walks in lush gardens of the resort community and played in the white sand and warm water of a calm, crescent shaped lagoon protected by a reef. Grissom was leading a couple of seminars each day; Catherine was supervising a major portion of the training, and Sara and Isabella enjoyed sunny cloudless days.

Isabella quickly learned new words: shell, coral, crab, fish, bucket and shovel as she held those things in her hands, and she amazed her father with her pronouncement of "anemone". After several days, the toddling baby went from playing in the sand to padding in the warm salty water and seemed to remember the gentle, fluid world of her beginning.

For all of them it had been halcyon days.

They were the last to leave the aircraft, managing to carry the sleeping baby to the curbside where Greg Sanders waited. Sara loved Greg—much as one loves a brother and he had proven to be a wonderful uncle to little Isabella—and he greeted them today as would a favorite relative.

"Look at you!" Greg said with a laugh. "Gone three weeks and you've popped out with a watermelon!"

Grissom wasn't about to laugh, but he knew it was true, amazed at the difference in the two pregnancies. Sara had carried Isabella for almost six months before she appeared pregnant. Now, she looked as if she had swallowed a basketball. With Isabella, Sara had vomited a few times; with this one, she had experienced morning sickness for weeks—at times so sick she had taken to bed. Yet she continued to have an amazing level of energy, never hesitating when the request had come for him to teach and accepted Catherine's invitation to travel without pause.

It took some time for the family to get home, unpack the car, greet Hank, thank Greg, and settle Isabella into her bed. And there was still luggage to unpack.

"Take a shower, honey," Grissom said. "I'll get the rest of this put away."

Sara needed no prolong prodding and headed to the shower where she was joined several minutes later. She kissed the dry cheek of her husband as he stepped in to join her.

Laughing, she said, "I guess all the clothes are in the laundry, Hank got walked, and Isabella has a bottle for early in the morning in the refrigerator." A low, deep chuckle came from her husband.

As he reached for her, turning her around against him, only needing her touch to trigger passion, her arms slid around his neck, his across her back; he bent his head and found her mouth. Water washed over them, flowing over shoulders, along backs and arms until they felt not as two but as an entity. He felt the up-thrusts of breasts, the curve of her butt, and the roundness of her belly; the folds and crevices in between. For years, he had known she was made for him.

Somehow, they got to the bed—half carried, half walking, laughter as soft as her skin under his hands.

Her arms and legs wrapped around him, bounding him to her; he put his cheek against hers. Without releasing her, he kissed her—her eyes, the curving bones along the arch of her eyebrows, and returned to her mouth. The tips of his fingers passed along her bare back, feeling the start of little shivers. His mouth moved to the hollow of her throat, along her shoulder, pressing lips on her damp skin; he nipped, kissed, sucked the delicate blush of her flesh.

"You are so soft, Sara."

Wrapping arms around her, Grissom's mind reeled, slipped, and for long moments they became a body poem of utter pleasure. And afterward, when the tide of Sara's body had given him all she could, he drifted on wings of an intimate kind of freedom. Sleep—a respite from everything bright in consciousness.

Several weeks later, Sara and little Isa planned to spend the day with Betty—a doting grandmother—pleased to have one grandchild and beyond delight at the prospect of a second, and thrilled beyond words to know the second grandchild would carry her beloved husband's name. Isabella, at a very young age, seemed to recognize simple sign language and would often place her hands on Betty's face, intently gazing into the older woman's eyes. The child spent hours with her grandmother and was already using certain gestures in a baby sign language which both understood.

His research work continued so Grissom rode out to the canyon, knowing a couple of students would be there and Sara would be busy with his mother all day. As he drove the all-terrain vehicle along the dusty trail, he saw the damage of drought—bleached skeletons of small trees, the misty brown veil of dust whipped by dry wind. Even the low growing desert grass was patchy now. But the water still sprang from its hidden spring making a pool of water that served as a fountain for every form of life in the area.

The dragon fly research continued, but now there was funding for more—insects, birds, sheep, turtles—how these animals survived and adapted when their natural habitat cracked under a relentless sun. Grissom noticed the trails and prints of animals when he slowed and turned into the canyon—the researchers had managed to keep the area free of hikers and curious tourists—a little oasis of research for them just as the water was an oasis for the wildlife.

A spasm of coughing broke his silence—the dust, he thought, finally catching up with him. He had spit brown sputum for days after he had been caught in a dust storm a few months ago. He reached for a bottle of water. The cough made his chest ache; it was the dryness, the lack of humidity; he swallowed more water.

For two hours, he and the graduate assistants monitored several pieces of equipment, reset two hidden cameras, took dozens of photographs, and took samples of the water in the pool. New tracks—small prints indicated the arrival of a new animal to the pool. The three men worked almost in silence until one mentioned taking a break in their man-made shade and the two others followed him.

Grissom, more grateful for the break than he would admit, swallowed a full bottle of water before sitting down. The water seemed to cause another coughing paroxysm, sudden and more intense than the previous one.

One of the young men said: "What's wrong with you? We heard you coughing before you got here."

Grissom shook his head, "Dust, heat, I think. It's so dry everywhere." He coughed again; his hand splayed across his chest. "Pass me another bottle." He drank more water but instead of quieting his cough, it seemed to seize his chest in a vice grip.

"You don't look so good," the second graduate assistant, a young boy named Cameron, said. "I don't think you need to be out here." The two students glanced at each other. Both thinking that Grissom was the one researcher who had more energy, more stamina, than anyone else; both recognizing an unusual incident—and it wasn't going away.

Grissom tried to stand but slipped back to the ground. "Can't get a breath," he muttered, his lips tingled as he said the words. Suddenly, the air seemed to be filled with far away voices, rustles, whispers; he could feel the ticking of his pulse. Yet he was out of step with it. The two faces swimming before his were not who he wanted to see, drifting, frightened faces in a watery mist, saying things he could not hear.

He was hardly conscious of pain or the water poured over his face and certainly unaware of the terrified phone call being made for emergency help as he fought to get air into his lungs. His skin felt as if it were vibrating from the heat of the sun. He must have passed out because when he opened his eyes, air was in his lungs; he was breathing even though the tightness around his chest was still there but not as tight as it had been. His clothes were drenched and one of the boys was bathing his face in water.

"He's awake!"

Grissom remembered the boy's name. "Cameron," he managed to utter.

"Don't get up. We've got help coming. You passed out. Drink if you can." The young man lifted Grissom's head and brought a water bottle to his mouth.

Grissom swallowed the water. "My chest hurts. Am I having a heart attack?" It was the only thing he could think of that would cause the tightness around his chest.

"Help is coming—just hang on. We used an epi-pen from the first aid box. Afraid you were going to stop breathing!"

When he closed his eyes, Cameron said, "Don't go to sleep! Keep your eyes open—keep talking! Hell, I don't know what else to do!"

Surprising himself, Grissom managed to chuckle. "I can't die. And I don't think it's a heart attack. My lungs just can't get enough air." He went into another spasm of coughing, but the epinephrine was working; he could breath.

He must have been unconscious longer than he thought because within minutes he heard the familiar drone of a helicopter coming in fast and low.

"You called for a helicopter?" Grissom could not believe he had been ill enough to warrant such a rescue.

Cameron nodded. "Steven did. Or when he called 9-1-1 the dispatcher sent it." He was watching the helicopter circle overhead. The concussion of the engine echoed in the box canyon, growing louder by the second, kicking up its own dust storm as it landed.

Grissom struggled to sit up then realizing he ached all over, slumped against the rock at his back. Whatever this was had taken all his strength, he thought, especially worrying after the injection. For the first time, he was thankful the young men had given it to him and he stayed where he was until two more arrived with a stretcher.

A dozen questions were asked as the four men got him strapped to an orange board; one placed a mask over his face, which made it difficult for him to talk, and then started an IV in his arm. As cool air flooded his lungs, he heard one say "It doesn't seem to be his heart" but as Grissom attempted to talk the four lifted him from the ground and with unusual speed hurried across the desert to the waiting helicopter.

As men and machine lifted into the sky, Grissom wished he had told the guys not to call Sara. He needed to be the one to tell her he was okay even if he was flying into Desert Palm Hospital on an emergency flight. But then he started coughing again, even with the mask, and the two men beside him were relaying information and checking blood pressure and pulse and respiratory rate in medical jargon he did not try to understand.

After that, his life became a blur of rapid movement, white lights, a bright ceiling, and numerous voices asking questions, giving orders, vague impressions of dozens of people around him until there was nothing. He did not know if it had been minutes, hours, or days when he heard her voice.

"Gil, Gil, you want to wake up?"

And the smooth, soft palm on his cheek he recognized. He wanted to wake up so he opened his eyes. Sara's fingers were threading through his hair; her face only inches from his. She wore the same bright pink shirt she had on when he left her. She smiled.

"Hey," he whispered; his mouth felt like cotton.

"Hey, yourself." She pressed her lips against his forehead. He felt her belly against his arm.

"I don't know what happened," he whispered.

When she raised her face, she continued to smile which made him feel much better; if she smiled he wasn't near death.

"You had an allergic reaction to something—maybe something in the dust—that affected your breathing—your lungs. The guys used the epinephrine pen in the first aid kit—a good thing because I'm not sure you would have made it otherwise."

"I'm sorry."

Her cool soft hands were back on his face. "Steven called before the helicopter arrived to pick you up so I was in the ER before you arrived. I wouldn't leave—and most men are a bit scared of a pregnant woman," she laughed softly. "Do you feel all right? I'm to call a doctor if there is any sign of relapse, a rash." With one finger she pulled the neck of the hospital gown away from his body and checked his chest by placing the top of his head against his mouth and looking under the gown. Lifting her head, she whispered, "No rash."

Sara looked down into his eyes and saw the same love in their blueness which had warmed her, given her purpose and energy, and, most of all, life. She had managed to hide her panic as her husband had been wheeled through the emergency doors; she pushed her terror out of sight as physicians, nurses, technicians flooded around the narrow stretcher. And she did not back away when the first person suggested she wait outside the treatment area. Her voice had been strong and steady when she said "I'll stay." And no one else had suggested it again.

She had kept her hand wrapped around his ankle even as his pants and socks were cut away in an attempt to find an insect bite or anything else that might have caused the severe anaphylaxis. There was no doubt he would have died in the desert if the graduate assistants had not used the epi-pen.

With deliberate sensuousness, she placed hands on both sides of his head and placed her lips against his; he found her mouth and hungrily kissed her, wanting more of her, not able to hold her close enough to assuage the feeling growing in him. He was safe; they were safe and for her calmness, he loved her even more.

About three hours later, as the sun was sliding low in the western sky, the physicians decided Grissom was well enough for discharge, no longer in danger from an unknown allergen, stressing caution and prescribing the same epi-pen that had saved his life earlier.

The fright, the panic, the terror experienced when Sara had gotten the phone call moved to the back of her thoughts as they left the hospital and picked up Isabella. Obvious relief showed on Betty Grissom's face as her son walked in, yet his eyes were on his daughter as she squealed with glee, always happy to see him.

On the same day Sara's second baby decided to arrive so did the rain, putting an end to the longest drought in recent history for Las Vegas. That day the clouds filled the sky thousands of feet deep, cracked open and poured nearly twelve inches of rain on the thirsty desert over the next three days. And with the rain came life.

It was the first day of the new year, exactly thirteen months after Isabella was born, that Gil Grissom's son was born. Named Samuel Gilbert after a grandfather he would never know, the baby arrived within a few days of his due date; Sara had three or four sharp contractions, her water broke, and the baby was delivered with minimal pain. By his second day, his mother's breasts were full to overflowing and he was hungry.

And he was beautiful—a chubby, eight pound birth weight, with a cap of flaxen curly hair atop his perfect round skull, and vivid blue eyes which would not change because they were the color of his father's. Gil's eyes, Gil's hands and nose, chin and mouth—even Gil's feet—everyone who looked at the baby glanced at his mother and then turned to his father who seemed oblivious to all of their chatter.

From the moment Isabella set eyes on him, she adored her baby brother. Before they left the hospital, Sara took her daughter onto her lap while holding the baby in the crook of her arm and said: "He's your brother, Isa. You will always love him and he'll love you and you will watch out for each other, make sure he doesn't get into trouble."

The gold-flecked, azure blue eyes, with an intelligence far beyond her age, looked at her mother and then at the sucking baby. Barely more than a baby herself, Isabella nodded confidently, as if she understood what it meant to have a baby brother.

The perfume of rain on parched soil continued to fall as the family left the hospital; true to her agreement, Isabella stretched her arm so she could pat her new brother's tiny waving hand. The rain had washed the dust away, whitened everything, washed the dust off benches and streets, filled drainage ditches and long-dry creeks. In just a few hours a pale-green fuzz had appeared as blades of dormant grass reached for water.

Within a week, the grime of dust washed away, the trees, scrubs, and flowers kept alive by sparsely sprinkled water were budding and turning lime green, flowers were forming, and the trees were growing lush.

How beautiful everything was, Sara thought, as she carried her infant son to the park. How alive, to see all things grow, change, and start all over in the same unceasing cycle. Her husband and daughter walked ahead of her; the little girl growing steadier in her steps each day while her father provided a finger of guidance. Sara heard the high-pitched giggle, unaware it was the same laugh of her childhood, of her daughter. The father and daughter had stopped to watch a column of ants cross the sidewalk. It was such a commonplace occurrence, nothing unusual at all in the life they had.

_And the end of this little story!_

_A/N: **We think its time to get Grissom back to Vegas! Not Petersen because he isn't coming, but Grissom needs to be living with his wife! (Write letters to Carol Mendelsohn!)**_

_Real life needs our time, not sure when we will write another story. Number of reviews will influence our decision...there is always one more story for us to tell...not sure when it will be. Or if there is enough interest-so let us know. _

_Again, thank you for reading, taking time out of your life to read our little bits of fanfiction for Sara and Grissom! It's been a great ride and you can only imagine the fun we've had doing this, hearing from readers! Thank you!_

_Sarapals, aka Amelia, Mimi, and Yvette (May, 2012) _


End file.
